As they headed downstairs to the parking garage, Sorensen came up to the ambassador. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m recommending we delay this convoy awhile—perhaps an hour.”
“An hour? That’s no good, Rick. I need to try to get in to see Maravilloso before she starts throwing more firebombs on TV.”
“As far as I can ascertain, sir, only half the normal contingent of Federal District Police are outside,” Sorensen said. “I called the Internal Affairs Ministry and they said the rest are clearing the first several blocks of the route.”
“Sounds normal to me.”
“The usual procedure is to have one platoon of police outside the embassy to surround the convoy as it leaves the compound. They deploy motorcycles or Jeeps to secure the route ahead of the convoy only after we’ve formed up. We’ve only got half the detail here now—and I can actually see only six. Besides, we don’t have any air support clearance yet.”
“But our choppers are standing by…?”
“Yes, sir, and they’ll launch with or without clearance,” Sorensen assured him. “But it’s damned irregular for the president to ask for a meeting and at the same time the Internal Affairs Ministry keeps us grounded. The left hand is not talking to the right.”
“After Maravilloso publicly admonished Díaz for that shoot down near El Centro, I’d be surprised if they even look at each other anymore, let alone talk.”
“That kind of friction only makes the situation worse, sir.”
“Rick, I need to get to the Palacio Nacional, ASAP,” Poindexter said. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but Washington is hoping that having the U.S. ambassador camped out in her outer office while she addresses the nation will coerce Maravilloso to say something to calm this situation down. Now, is there any actionable intel that you’ve received that leads you to believe we’d be in danger if we set out immediately?”
Sorensen hesitated, then shook his head. “No, sir. Just a hunch—that creepy feeling I get when things don’t look quite right. But I have no information on any specific action against us—other than the normal level of threats of violence, of course.”
“Then we go,” Poindexter said. He tapped the bulletproof vest under his shirt. “Wonder if we’ll ever get to the point where we won’t have to wear this shit whenever we go outside the embassy here, Rick.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, sir.”
Poindexter sighed, then clasped the DSS chief on the shoulder. “‘I only regret I have but one life to lose in the service of my country,’ eh, Rick? Nathan Hale.”
“Hale was sold out by a friend, captured by the British, refused a Bible while in custody, tortured, had all of the letters he wrote to his family burned, and was hanged without a trial, sir.”
“You didn’t need to remind me of all that, Rick. Let’s roll.”
The ambassador’s convoy was three armored Suburbans, one in front and one in back of the ambassador’s car. Each Suburban had four heavily armed Diplomatic Security Service agents in it, wearing bulletproof vests and armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and SIG Sauer P226 sidearms. A GPS tracking system recorded every vehicle’s exact position and would immediately notify the other DSS units along the route of any problems.
As soon as the convoy was formed up inside the parking garage, DSS notified the Federal District Police protective unit outside. The bus moved forward until it was past the gated garage entrance. Once in position, Rick Sorensen stepped outside the steel gate, his jacket unbuttoned so he could have fast access to the MP5 submachine gun underneath. He carefully scanned both sides of the block. The street was cordoned off by Federal District Police in riot gear in both directions, and the street was empty. The police had pushed the crowds back all the way across the intersection to the other side and blocked off the streets, leaving plenty of warning space. The windows and rooftops within sight appeared clear.
Everything looked okay—so far. Sorensen lifted his left sleeve microphone to his lips: “Bulldog, Tomcat, report.” All of the Marine Corps guards and DSS security agents reported in, followed by the controllers monitoring the fourteen security cameras outside the complex. When everyone reported clear, Sorensen waved to the Federal District Police bus driver to move out, then motioned for the ambassador’s motorcade to follow. He made one more visual sweep of the block. Everything looked good. The crowds were back, way back…good. No one in the windows, no one in the park across the plaza, no one…
It was then that Sorensen realized that the Federal District Police bus had not moved. The first Suburban was out of the compound and the ambassador’s car was following right behind, not yet clear of the steel gate—that was another mistake. Either the car was all the way in or all the way out, never in between. Sorensen glanced at the bus driver’s mirror…
…and noticed there was no one in the driver’s seat.
He immediately lifted his microphone: “Code red, code red!” he shouted. “Contain! Contain!”
The first Suburban, which had cleared the steel gate, stopped in position to guard the entrance, its gun ports immediately open. The driver of the ambassador’s Suburban jammed the transmission into reverse. But just before he cleared the gate he rammed into the Suburban behind him, which was following too close behind. Both vehicles stalled…
…and at the same time the heavy gauge steel car gates, propelled by small howitzer shells to ensure the gates could be closed even without electricity, slammed shut—crushing the ambassador’s SUV’s engine compartment, trapping it between the gates…
…and at the same moment, two hundred kilos of TNT hidden underneath the bus detonated. Sorensen and the Suburban outside the gate were immediately obliterated by the explosion. The engine compartment of the Suburban stuck in the gates exploded, propelling the SUV backward into the embassy compound and flipping it up and over the third security vehicle.
JUST SOUTH OF RAMPART ONE
BORDER SECURITY BASE, IN MEXICO
THAT EVENING
Major Gerardo Azueta was awakened by that unexplainable soldier’s sixth sense of impending danger. He quickly swung out of his cot, pulled on his uniform, and slipped into his body armor vest and web gear. He grabbed his M-16 rifle, donned his Kevlar helmet, and hurried outside. He was on his way to the command vehicle, but saw Lieutenant Ignacio Salinas, the duty officer and second in command, speaking with a noncommissioned officer and went over to them instead. It was probably an hour or so before dawn, with just a hint of daylight to the east, but even in the darkness he could tell there was trouble. “Report, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, report from Scout Seven, about ten minutes ago,” Salinas reported. That scout unit, riding U.S. military surplus Humvees, was about thirteen kilometers to the east. “They saw a group of about fifteen migrants captured by what appears to be a civilian border patrol group.”
“Those Watchdogs again?”
“Yes, sir, I think so,” Salinas said. “About six heavily armed individuals in military gear, but they were not National Guard.”
“Status of the California National Guard units in the area?”
“Slight decrease in numbers, sir, especially the TOW-equipped Humvees,” Salinas said. “They were pulled out yesterday evening. Still several active patrols out there, but fewer in number and firepower.”
“Damned renegade vigilantes,” Azueta murmured. “Did you observe anyone getting badly hurt?”