A Sikorsky helicopter in full battle regalia bearing the colors of the Mexican Navy hovered a hundred yards away, the side panel open and a fifty caliber machine gun trained on the pilothouse. Inside, a group of grim-faced marines in assault gear were grouped behind the weapon.
Waiting.
Dawn had broken a few minutes earlier, but even in the dim light of the new day it was glaringly obvious to Mario that this was a full-scale disaster. The massive blades of the chopper churned the water below; its downdraft from the buffeting whipped the sea into an angry froth.
Mario throttled back to near idle. Keeping his eye on the aircraft, he barked at Julio, “What the…when did they show up?”
“They came out of nowhere. There was nothing on the radar, and then suddenly, there they were.”
Mario grimaced. “Shit. They must have been flying at a high altitude, which is why it didn’t pick them up.”
He was interrupted by an amplified voice from the copter.
“Put the engine in neutral and stop. Prepare to be boarded. Get your crew on deck where they can be seen,” the voice boomed across the water as the chopper closed the distance, now no more than sixty yards from the boat.
Julio glanced around wildly. “You think this is some kind of a drill or random inspection?” he asked, obviously panicked.
Mario shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Look at them. They’re geared up for a small war. No, I’d say we’ve been sold out.”
“Dammit,” Julio spat. “What do we do?”
“Look at the radar. See there?” His grubby finger jabbed at the screen. “That’s a huge ship, and it’s moving very fast.”
Mario had to make a quick decision. They had several automatic assault rifles on board, but they would be no match against the entire Mexican navy. His mind raced over alternatives, and then he shook his head again.
“We’re finished. Get the men on deck and tell them to keep their mouths shut. The last thing we want is a gunfight with the marines on the open sea,” Mario said.
“So we’re going to just give up?”
“Do you have any better ideas?” Mario seethed. “We’ve got a ship bearing down on us, and that chopper has enough firepower to blow us to Japan. Do you really feel like dying today? I don’t. We can always let our lawyers deal with the fallout from this.” He shook his head and sighed. “It’s better than the alternative…”
Julio took a deep breath and wordlessly descended the stairwell to where the crew was asleep after a mini-fiesta following the loading.
A few minutes later, the men filed onto the deck with their hands in the air or behind their heads, and watched as the distinctive outline of the warship moved towards them. The chopper held its position, fixing the boat with its full attention as it waited for the Sonora to get within range.
Mario caught movement in the pilothouse as he squinted at the horizon from the deck; upon seeing the source, he dropped his arms and began gesturing wildly with his hands. The crazy Colombian submarine captain had stayed below, and now peered through the doorway with an AK-47 pointed at the helicopter.
“Noooo-” Mario screamed, but it was too late.
The captain emptied the weapon at the chopper. Julio and Mario watched in horror as the slugs tore into the side of the aircraft, cutting down several of the armed marines. The fire was answered by the staccato high-speed chatter of the big fifty caliber gun as it issued forth a broadside of rounds that riddled the old pilothouse, annihilating the foolhardy submariner in a rain of lethal fury.
The last thing Mario saw before his world went black for good was the stream of tracers from the chopper shredding the deck around him, mangling his crew in a hail of death as the spooked marines opened up with everything they had. A few of his men tried to find cover from the slaughter, but there was nowhere to hide. It was finished in a matter of a few seconds, and when the shooting stopped, nothing remained but corpses.
When Villanuevo arrived on the Sonora twenty minutes later, the drifting boat was awash in blood, the slug-torn bodies of the hapless crew scattered across the deck. The marines rappelled from the helicopter and moved cautiously over the boat before descending to the lower compartments, wary of another attack. After a few minutes, the leader emerged from the pilothouse and shook his head.
“There’s nobody left alive.”
An hour later, Villanuevo radioed in one of the largest drug busts on the high seas in Mexican history — a triumph owed entirely to an anonymous tip from parties unknown.
In the end, El Cabrito was only one of many shipments that made its way from Colombia every month, and even though it was a large seizure, there were infinite amounts of both criminals and drugs from where it had originated. Submarines continued to be fabricated in the hidden depths of the guerrilla-controlled jungle, and men desperate to make one big score that would set them up for life remained eager to pilot them north to the largest drug market in the world. As it had been for decades, and as it would remain for generations to come.
Yesterday, Los Mochis, Mexico. 6:04 a.m.
The yard of the paint supply company’s storage facility was particularly well fortified, with gleaming new barbed wire and hurricane fencing to keep trespassers at bay. Several ill-tempered Rottweilers prowled the grounds, further dissuading potential thieves from picking it as a target. Four armed sentries sat positioned at the corners, where they remained every night until they were relieved at eight a.m., an hour before the yard opened for business.
It was still dark out, but the first orange rays of dawn were beginning to seep over the hills to the east of town, providing scant illumination of the road that led to the facility. At the far end of it, three military Humvees swung onto the pavement and raced towards the gates, followed by two trucks loaded with soldiers. The security men, alerted by the roar of the engines, hurriedly discussed their alternatives. They were there to protect the building — not take on the Mexican army. The head of the sentry detail told his men to stash their weapons where they wouldn’t be found, and one of the four ran to the far end of the yard where an old pickup truck sat on blocks, its engine long-ago dismantled for parts. He pushed the Kalashnikovs under the seat and was just moving back to the group when the vehicles pulled to a stop in front of the gate.
A Federal police officer wearing a bulletproof vest eyed the men dubiously from the safety of the lead truck’s cab, and satisfied that there was no imminent danger, he swung his door open and stepped onto the hard-packed dirt. He approached the obvious leader of the security guards and held out a piece of paper.
“Open the gates. I have a court order to search this bodega,” he announced perfunctorily.
The leader read the document, taking his time, and then nodded.
“I’ll be happy to, but I need to call the owners first and get their permission.”
The officer shook his head. “That’s not what the order says. It says you let us in, now, and shut up until I say it’s all right to call anyone,” the cop explained menacingly.
The leader’s eyes narrowed, and then he shrugged. “Suit yourself. But the owners are very powerful, and they won’t appreciate their property being trampled without any notice. I just work here, but I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”
“Your concern is noted. Now open up.”
The leader glared at the cop and the soldiers, who had deployed from the trailing vehicles and now had their weapons trained on his men. He sighed, then fished in his pocket for the key to the massive padlock that held the gates closed.
Two hours later, eighteen tons of marijuana had been discovered in two shipping containers at the far end of the storage facility, along with ninety kilos of Mexican heroin and several crates of automatic weapons. The Federales clamped a lid on the bust until they could round up the owners, who were going to jail for a very long time. The guards were charged with being accessories, but the police knew that would be a tough charge to make stick, given that they’d cooperated and the seizure had taken place without bloodshed — an anomaly in the ongoing war against the cartels.