Book 2: Episode 6

221st Cavalry Regiment (Nevada National Guard)

Las Vegas National Guard HQ, Las Vegas, NV

Lieutenant Colonel Aliston was sitting in his office, behind his desk, reading readiness reports from various groups within his command and the supporting elements of the Nevada Army National Guard.  It was, unfortunately, a common task for him as commander of the 221st.  A graduate of West Point, Aliston had served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, only transitioning to the reserves when his wife informed him firmly that she was going to move only once more in her life and he got to choose where that would be.  He chose Mount Charleston, Nevada—a small mountain community just 45 minutes from Las Vegas.  They were happy there and he had been able to transfer to the Nevada National Guard where he had served for almost ten years since leaving active duty.

Command Sergeant Major Ziffren knocked on the door frame and let himself in.  “Any word from G4, sir?”

G4 referred to the logistics section of their battalion.  This group was generally responsible for things like moving units around, managing vehicles, spares and all the millions of logistical details needed to keep a regiment moving and fighting.  Aliston put down the report he was reading.  “Not yet.  Just the ready signal and standby for deployment orders.”

Ziffren seated himself in one of the wooden chairs in front of Aliston’s desk.  “Word is that rotations to the NTC will be halved again in the next fiscal budget.”

Aliston shook his head.  “We are already below minimums.  Only half our armor platoons have qualified this year, and we are below minimums across the board.”

Ziffren grunted.  “Don’t I know it, sir.”

The phone rang.  Aliston answered.  He listened for a bit and then answered.  “Yes sir, we will have the regiment ready for travel by 08:00 tomorrow.  Thank you, sir.”

Ziffren clapped his hands.  “All right!”

Aliston hung up the phone and smiled at Ziffren.  “Let’s make this one count. This may be the last one for a while.”

“A firmative , sir!”

Book 2: Episode 5

CIA Forward Base Echo

Nogales, Sonora, Mexico

Peters leaned back in his wooden Adirondack chair on the main veranda of the estate.  He wasn’t really sure what else to call the sprawling facility.  Supposedly, it had previously belonged to a high-ranking member of the Sinaloa cartel.  Since the man was currently very dead, he didn’t need it anymore.  None of the locals had asked any questions when men wearing black body armor, but no insignia, arrived years ago to stake a claim to it.  It was strange to Peters, but the locals had learned to mind their business when the cartels were involved.  The very idea of black combat gear was pretty dumb and always made Peters chuckle a little.

He looked out over the harsh, ruggedly beautiful terrain.  Situated on the hills above the Nogales airport, he could see Mexico 15 which was a large part of why the CIA task force had taken over this house.  Mexico 15 eventually became I-19 only a few miles away to the north when the road crossed over the border.  It was a known smuggling route and had been the focus of US law enforcement for years.

Unlike those teams, Peters wasn’t really interested in arresting people, finding evidence, or bringing charges in court.  His job was much simpler.  Identify, locate and kill violent members of the local drug cartels.  It was a mission he was well trained for and a duty he was happy to perform.  These drug gangs caused problems for the USA and made the local population miserable; in some ways they were worse than the Taliban who he had also fought in his career.

Unlike Afghanistan, the locals seemed to actually be happy he was here.  Nobody threw rocks at his vehicle when he drove through town, and he hadn’t been spit on since entering the country.  He was also about an hour’s drive from Walmart which was handy when he ran low on Slim Jim’s.

Park came out of the main building with two cold Coronas.  Sighing, he sat down and handed one to Peters before taking a huge swig of the other.  “Good work today, Peters.”

Peters took an appreciative sip.  “Thank you, jefe.”  He pronounced it “he fe” with a slight Argentinian accent.  His original Spanish teacher had been Argentine, and he still used their pronunciations when he wasn’t thinking about it.

Park regarded the view for a few minutes.  “Intel is really worked up over the latest SigInt.”  SigInt, or “Signals Intelligence” was a constant bone of contention for the anti-cartel team.  The USA had the ability to intercept any cell phone call on earth and most other forms of communications short of full-on near peer military encryption, but that data was rarely shared with the team in Nogales due to national security concerns.  The folks in Fort Meade didn’t trust the Mexicans and the local team in Nogales was basically one step up from the Mexican military as far as they were concerned.

Peters snorted.  “What, we get like two intercepts a month for six months and now we get six in one day?”  He finished off his beer in a long swig.  “Why should we be concerned about that?”  He returned Park’s scowl with an ironic grin.

Park laughed a short bitter laugh.  “I can’t decide if your cynicism is disturbing or inspirational.”

Peters closed his eyes and leaned back.  He had been in the field for a week and was bone tired.  Field operations was a game for young men.  He was very fit for a 40-year-old, but in no way was he up to the standard of his old special forces team.  “Facts are facts man, those fuckers in Fort Meade don’t care about us.  If they’re shoving SigInt up our ass, someone in your chain of command told them to do it.”

Park pulled out a folder with red and white striped tape.  “Read.”

Peters opened one eye and glared at Park.  Park just held the folder at eye level.  Finally, Peters sighed, opened the other eye and started to read.  After a full ten minutes he closed the folder.  “Well, fuck me with a broom.”

“When do you leave?”

“We need backup.  Can you ask your amigo over at FES to assign a team?”

“Yeah, I’ll call him.”

“And see if we can scare up that Commander.  What’s his name?  Bustaman?”

“Bustamante?”

“Yeah, get him.  He knows which end the fire comes out.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Roger that.”