Heya folks. For those following my GATE story, figured I'd leave a note. Lots been happening recently, a family member had surgery but is doing okay, my pup is gonna need some herself in the future.
As for this. This is something I toyed with for a good half a year now. Figured it'd be a good idea to do without straying from Tom Clancy. Help with my writer's block too. It's kinda sorta a novelization if you will. Nothing groundbreaking or revolutionary, heheh.
Pentagon. 2019
President Ballantine was not having a good morning. His term was just over halfway finished and now this happens.
When he took the presidency, he was expecting a fairly uneventful term. North Korea had become a silent place since 2011. And the long road to reunification was in its infancy. Russia had better things to do now that a decade had passed since the ultranationalist coup. The potential for upsets were always likely though. Europe was in the process of transforming into a federation of nations purely based in Europe. There was a lot of paperwork and backroom talk about it with how it could impact NATO which itself was soul searching. While Africa mostly had a few brush wars not worth getting involved with compared to yesteryear. The Middle East was much quieter ever since the Blacklist's failure delivered a major blow to insurgent morale, the only major holdouts being Taliban cells and other splinter groups spread across the sands.
On the other hand. Iran had been in talks with China. After China's failed war in Venezuela in 2014, both nations negotiated to reform the Shanghai Cooperation Organization. Russia had withdrawn due to warming relations with the west and a focus on its own sphere of influence. India was in a sort of limbo between animosity towards China and the benefits of the alliance. All of this occupied the majority of the attention of intelligence agencies in NATO to learn what decisions were being made and why. Finding out observers and dialogue partners became members, both leading countries were creating think-tanks and were in the process of cross-training. It was a rather concerning trend, as though the SCO was now properly becoming an opponent to NATO as many speculated.
In their focus on the SCO, the intelligence community inevitably neglected other areas as was clearly evident from the footage Ballantine was met with early in the morning. To say he wasn't happy would be a major understatement. He was no stranger to some of the events that led up to now. He served as Caldwell's vice president and so was well in the know of the nitty gritty of the details. So he knew well just how bad things can get when a situation gets out of control. His mind briefly turning to the end of the Mexican rebellion, when mercenaries under Juan de la Barrera's orders were nearly successful in launching a stolen nuke onto American soil. But this wasn't a bunch of rebels, this was a criminal organization. Is this another potential shitstorm on the horizon?
"What happened?" He asked simply, sitting at the head of the war room. Worry later, get answers now. Along with him sat FBI Executive Assistant Director Evan O'Donnell of the Intelligence Branch, Principal Deputy Administrator Phillip Manuel of the DEA, and Deputy Director Willis of the CIA. The only other men in the room being Secret Service staff.
"Four days ago, at 2200 hours, I oversaw an operation initiated by Special Agent Karen Bowman to eliminate the head echelons of the Santa Blanca Drug Cartel." Willis began, his professional demeanor betrayed by the irritation in his face. "We kept an eye on Santa Blanca long before when they still operated in Mexico. When they left for greener pastures back in 2014, we followed them as we did with other cartels. It was a long process of gathering intel with DEA undercover agent Ricky Sandoval. To prevent any links to us, we reached out to a local rebellion called Katari's Hand. The attempt was a failure, and Agent Sandoval is currently deceased. We have yet to find his body. At 0900 hours today, the bomb at our embassy in La Paz detonated. It is no coincidence that this happened after the failed attempt to wipe out their leadership."
"You're positive that the cartel is behind this? Not some other group?" The President asked.
"Yes, Mr. President." There was no statement, but there rarely was with groups like this. The action was usually enough. Most other groups like the Italian Mafia preferred subtlety, enticement and agreements, even in situations like this. These actions were usually on the down low. Someone goes missing or is killed in their room only to be found the next day with a hole in their head, or simply a few broken bones. But groups like the Russian Mafia and Mexican Cartels were on the other side of the spectrum. Unlike the previously mentioned criminals they didn't mind the spotlight every now and then. At least in general, especially in the former climate of Mexico before NAJSA was passed.
Is it possible this led to a change in the behavior of the remaining cartels? A reaction to defend their revenue?
Evan O'Donnell spoke next. "They definitely have the means of pulling it off. As you know, Mr. President, NAJSA has been a godsend in battling crime and terrorism across the continent. But not only that, it's been instrumental in disrupting the drug trade. We've seen a drop of up to 80% of cocaine and other substances coming into America and Canada. Now that is mostly due to the cartels eating each other alive after the rebellion failed." NAJSA, the North American Joint Security agreement. It was groundbreaking stuff for the textbooks, sharing the policing duties along the borders of all three countries to combat illegal immigration, drugs, and weapons, all of which just so happened to be in the interest of cartels. It was thanks to many cartels the rebels were able to get away with more military gear than most others, a combination of threats and self-preservation on everyone's part to stop the threat to their revenue source.
"It was Darwinism coming down on them. Thing about that is the ones who survived are the smarter and stronger. And they find ways to get around obstacles. For example, our liaisons from Interpol have noted a slight uptick in cocaine seizures and arrests of cartel personnel in Amsterdam and Sicily, alleged leads being tracked in East Asia, and it seems a few connections in the wild wild lands of Africa. They picked up the pieces quickly. Using both drugs and cash as payment. Cocaine is a hell of a drug as a certain man once said."
"I was under the impression the Mafia stayed away from the dope as they called it." Ballantine replied.
"Mmm back in the day yes. 40s, 50s. The old timers were against it. They knew that stuff was a danger to their communities. It was the new guard wanting a piece of the drug market. If for no other reason than to ensure their enemies don't get a leg up on them. Then again the families here aren't, at least weren't, as ruthless as the families over there let alone cartels." Enemies in this case being rival families and other criminal enterprises.
Ballantine sighed. "So, we can assume they're connected and well off?"
"Indeed. They set up an operation down in Bolivia... hell they practically own the country." O'Donnell responds. "Makes the prestige of the Mafia in Prohibition look pitiful. A deal with the government to keep violence to a minimum. All the while their operations are at the point where they pull in one billion US dollars a week."
Ballantine nearly choked on the coffee he was drinking. One billion a week. A WEEK.
"We can thank the Darwinism of NAJSA for that, but that's just half of it." Manuel began. "We got plenty blocks of the cocaine they produce from drug busts. They do it the old-fashioned way, by hand. With putting all that extra work into it they make a premium product so to speak, one they seek to improve much like how farmers try to make hotter, tastier peppers."
"And like any good, legal or otherwise, the value of cocaine goes up with the distance traveled." Ballantine stated.
"Correct."
"So like everything else in the world, NAJSA has a few downsides and we're seeing it firsthand."
"In a manner of speaking." Manuel answered. "We have other known cartels on record involved in this. Santa Blanca however is arguably on the top of this totem pole. Their prestige is further enhanced by the prices of cocaine. They and other cartels picked up the pieces and reestablished themselves."
'And with what I'm being told they have; they have the proper tools to eventually influence events here at home.' Ballantine didn't say out loud. A sizable chunk of the new blood politicians wasn't as experienced as the likes of himself. All it took was one bad egg there, unmonitored, unseen, until their actions are put in the open or go unseen long enough to do real damage. People naturally remember the negative more than the positive. Who knows what fucked up nonsense happened behind closed doors in this building? Both cause public trust to be damaged to the point they won't swallow what is said, something they rarely do in the first place unless they're braindead, something that a sizable portion of the population seems to be turning into actually. How long until the cartels start trying to do this to subvert NAJSA's efforts?
How long until terrorists were able to have easier access to the American homeland once again? Memories of the Blacklist came to mind. Nearly starting a war with Iran, the destruction at the Sabine Pass, the biggest fuel facility on the Gulf Coast going up in flames and saved at the last minute. The Site F blacksite being taken over by the Engineers only for Fourth Echelon to swoop in at the last minute. NO... not again...
"What are we doing about this as of right now?" Ballantine asked.
Willis answered. "Special Agent Bowman is handling things on her end. She'll be heading back to Bolivia after she calls in a favor with a military unit while we organize a few teams for tasks. As of right now we already have a sizable force backing the rebels. SOG teams with logistical backing, mostly in the form of ammunition, weapons seized in raids, a few funds. But up until this point the rebels were making do for themselves. This minimalist approach however is starting to show its problems, the rebels are on the back foot now having both the Cartel and Unidad to contend with. We estimate that unless things get better, they'll have at most three weeks before collapsing."
"What about government forces down there? Are they completely in the cartel's pockets?"
"With what we gathered it's a sizeable portion yes. In particular is a group by the name of La Unidad, simply 'The Unit.' Specops military police. They performed well at first, but the collateral damage was unavoidable. The violence all leading to the deal between cartel and government. Besides those who went all in, the rest are either content or biting their tongues. There's real tension there and every now and then we hear about a skirmish or two breaking out between the groups."
Willis' assessment left Ballantine thinking. "So instead of violence in the open it's violence in silence. O'Donnel, Manuel, do you have any other information to add to this?"
"We can bet that the cartel will not sit idly by after this. This was a message. You can bet your entire life's earnings they'll adapt to the situation to ensure this doesn't happen again, and any other undercover agents are at risk."
"Leave that to me." Manuel responded. "Alerts were sent out to current DEA agents to be aware. We also have a couple of SRT teams that were sent on standby to back up the CIA SAC assets."
"And no one thought to use these assets to hit Santa Blanca with the Rebels?" The question had a large amount of annoyance in Ballantine's voice.
"Mr. President it was Bowman's decision... and we did deploy some of those men alongside the rebels. Needless to say they're the only ones that made it out. Of course it was something I supported in the interest of the task and keeping us uninvolved. As I say she's currently pulling some strings to get special operators for her task."
"Goddammit, why not just throw money at the problem? First we already have two different agency operators down there with the DEA and CIA, now we're pulling military units into this? Have you ever heard the phrase 'too many cooks in the kitchen?'" The President asked with annoyed sarcasm in the mix.
"Mr. President, it's not out of the ordinary for military special forces units to work hand in hand with those of domestic agencies. Let alone train alongside them. It's a good way for said agencies to get experience in the field while working with men who go through it on a more frequent basis." Willis explained.
Ballantine could only turn in frustration. "Christ, Willis that's not the issue! This is the opposite of that. It's our national agencies bringing military special forces along for the ride in an operation that is inherently law enforcement!" Ballantine was silent before a sigh left his lips. It all seemed a bit too late to strike while the iron was hot. All parties involved would just have to keep much quieter about it lest some journalist starts asking questions about the military's role in non-warfare situations. Narco-terrorists or otherwise.
The United States is famous for its special forces. Yes, there was the British SAS often labeled as the "father group" for modern SpecOps. Not to mention and their naval brothers in the SBS. Their Australian and New Zealand cousins in the SASR and the NZSAS respectively. The Russian Spetsnaz who many times stood and tangled with operatives of the west during the Cold War along with the GRU, Vympel, and the VDV. But the United States has become the go-to example for their special forces both in quantity and quality. The Army's Delta Force, Navy's Seal Team 6, Air Force's Special Tactics Squadron, The Marines' Force Recon and Raiders, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. The American special operations community is a veritable smorgasbord of who's who.
That being said these operatives were never used on American soil proper. Save the Artemis invasion and EMP attacks in 2011 along with the Mexican Rebellion, the US never had special forces operate on its soil as dictated by the Posse Comitatus Act passed in 1878. In short it prohibited the use of active-duty personnel from enforcing the law. There's considerable debate whether this applies in an advisory, support, disaster response or other role as opposed to domestic law enforcement. With that in mind many American agencies created their own special forces. SWAT often came to mind, but that was a more official response at all three levels of law. The agencies in mind like the CIA had dedicated forces.
The FBI had the Hostage Rescue Team who recruits heavily from former military operators. The Coast Guard also has its own specialists for in the Maritime Security Response Teams. The DEA's Special Response Teams who were once Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Teams. Even the Department of Energy with its Federal Protective Forces, which were specially trained contractors from private companies defending nuclear sites. The CIA for their part possessed the Special Activities Division, better known as the Special Operations Group with their own land, air and sea assets. Their legacy going back to the Office of Strategic Services in World War 2. And it was the same agency that was famous for the operations in Vietnam as MAC-V SOG whose legacy stretched to today. Funny enough there were plenty of times the CIA and army worked together in hunting down the Viet Cong in that regard. If ever there was a force to hit a cartel, it's SOG.
"Fine. So, who is Bowman looking to get ahold of? We have many to choose from, it's just a matter of how many aren't keeping an eye on SCO or hunting down the animals who haven't left their caves in the Middle East."
Willis looked to Manuel and O'Donnell looked to one another with uncertainty. "She's asked for the Ghosts."
The moment Ballantine's mind processed what was said, his demeanor transitioned to the outrage he was suppressing up to that moment. "She WHAT!? Deputy Director Willis, tell me why in the HELL an in the field special agent of the CIA thinks she can just request the Ghosts for drug peddlers!?" The question was not outrageous. Few outside of the President and special forces community knew about the Ghosts until their declassification from the TV show Modern Heroes. Even then their actions remained an enigma to most people, much like other groups. Everyone knows SEAL Team 6 killed Osama bin Laden, but very few can go beyond that fact about them. For the love of God, the Ghosts were essentially the President's Special Mission Unit. Last but not least, the Ghosts were the tip of the spear not just in training but in the gear they use. They arm themselves with the latest and even experimental technology and gadgets. Combine all of this and it was a situation ready to happen.
"As it turns out, just earlier this year a Ghost Team was dispatched to Venezuela to deal with a hostage situation regarding the Amazonas Free State. Their team leader was temporarily captured. While incarcerated he was shown to Santa Blanca's lead money man named El Pulpo. Turns out they were trying to make a partnership alongside UK-based PMC Watchgate. Agent Sandoval learned about this and sent word to Bowman, and she apparently did her homework. She spoke to Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell himself about it." Willis waited a moment before continuing. "She already spoke to Delta and DEVGRU, they all recommended the Ghosts. She even spoke to an ex-Vympel officer in Maine."
Ballantine muttered to himself. "And you decided until now to speak to me about it. Need I remind you that the Ghosts aren't the sort of people you just call for help like the goddamn police?"
"No Mister President."
"So this is just a chance encounter because she did her homework? No deep state bullshit?"
Willis looked as though he was a whipped dog. "What- I- of course not, Mr. President!"
"That's probably a lie. God this shit, okay. Fine... she's already underway?"
Willis nodded. "We've spoken with other high-ranking individuals in anticipation along before this. General Keating gave his blessing. Bowman herself said calling the Ghosts was her last resort."
Another sigh from Ballantine, "Okay. I just need to speak with Mitchell. If he okays it, then I'll allow it. But keep in mind the Ghosts aren't SEALs or Delta. They aren't as open to this joint work with agencies like others. Specifically, being under their thumb."
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
The thing about Ghosts is that they have a record of doing their own thing. If their orders came from outside, it was from the President or some spook that was already well in the know on the President's orders. Let SEALs, Delta and the agency boys have the CIA handlers and backing. Let the agencies send their own men in.
Since outgrowing their roots of serving as a Green Beret battalion following the Russian Insurgency in '08 and reorganized as the Group for Specialized Tactics, the Ghosts have undergone as many deniable ops as any other group. What made their work was notable was they were always the first to get to try the new toys DARPA created. Every new rifle, helmet, grenade, drone, the Ghosts got first dibs. Thanks to them a lot of equipment made it into the hands of grunts and fellow specialists in the first place. Even the revolutionary CROSS-COM that is slowly filtering down to other units were first used by the Ghosts in the field. That helped set them at the very tip of the spear. They get to use the best gear first because they got results. And they've managed to do it broadly without having outside agencies looking over their shoulders. Hell, said agencies were usually the ones asking for help.
Captain Anthony Perryman, callsign Nomad, former Delta Force, knew this better than anyone as he sat in the briefing room. He came to realize it when he was approached by the Ghosts with an offer to join. That was yet another thing separating them from other special forces. There's no application process. It's about who is noticed in the field, and they are approached. His time came after the rebellion in Mexico where he found himself fighting alongside two of them. He would go on to take ops in Southeast Asia, Africa and South America. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. Being able to do it without much in the way of oversight was a dream for him. And with his time in the Ghosts, he learned to never be satisfied with just what worked.
When he first put on the CROSS-COM, he realized just what he was missing out on. That tech and gadgets were as vital as knowing how to field strip and maintain an M4 or knowing how much to pack for a ruck in the field. Even when things didn't work or ended up not living up to expectations, what's what the past training was for.
With him was the rest of his team. Sergeant First Class Dominic Moretta, callsign Holt, the team's tech specialist. Drones and computers were his specialty. For a Ghost, tech is as old a friend as the rifle, and those who specialized in its use were highly sought after. All the tougher to do in this increasingly tech-dependent world. Though he has a habit of taking the jokes he makes too far which has often led to trouble. Master Sergeant Coray Ward, callsign Weaver. The team's sniper and a bit of a scholar. He was one of the 'outsiders' in the Ghosts as he came from the Navy's Seal Team Six. As part of the reforms for the Ghosts, the decision was made to widen the search for recruits from other service branches. Sergeant First Class Rubio Delgado, callsign Midas. His position being the team's vehicle specialist, as well as an expert on Latin American politics and culture.
The other four men with him was another Ghost team. Captain Cole Walker, callsign Wolf, a close friend and fellow team leader. A real special forces type of man. Sergeant Major Josiah Hill, callsign Red, a soft-spoken African American man with a thing for weapons big and small alike. Sergeant Major Jeffery Griffin, callsign Tech, also a drone lover who yearned for the state-of-the-art gear available, sometimes to his detriment. It was men like Griffin that gave the Ghosts their reputation for tech. Lastly, Master Sergeant Alejandro Sanchez, callsign Gaucho, Son of Peruvian immigrants, he joined the army out of a sense to prove loyalty to his new home and close quarters monster. He would apply for Ranger School and eventually find his way into the Ghosts.
"Gentlemen." Came the voice of Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell as he entered the briefing room.
"Sir." They all responded.
"We got a big one on our hands. I'm certain you saw the news out of Bolivia today?"
Who didn't, it was all over the news here in America. Already people were divided on how to respond. And those people were divided on their perspectives. Those who wanted action argued for something subtle to outright bombing them, while those who didn't want action either called it a justified attack or just didn't want another potential bogged conflict. This of course was just the people who had time to look at it.
"Bout time we did something about those maniacs. Last thing the world needs is a cartel getting too big for its own good." Wolf muttered loudly.
"Easy, Walker. There's a lot we have to go through here." Mitchell cautioned.
"Aw maaaaan, we have to do homework, don't we?" Holt whined. "Well I guess we gotta know what we're doing before we put the hurt on people." He added with a grin.
Mitchell cleared his throat. "Before we begin, I want to introduce someone to you." He motioned to the door, and the attendant guard opened to let in a woman. Looked to be in her late 40s, dark blonde hair, brown eyes. Dressed in suit and tie with files.
"This is CIA Special Agent Karen Bowman." The atmosphere changed immediately. If she recognized the looks she was given, she gave no indication of how she felt about it.
The Central Intelligence Agency. Once regarded as a cornerstone of many events in American history and lauded for its initiative, now seen by the Ghosts as nothing more than a gaggle of decrepit old advisors grasping to keep power and young impressionable field agents with no imagination doing the dirty work. And a few experiments on the civilian populace on the side. All of whom see the world as one big chessboard to do with as they please, but instead of making careful moves they toss the pieces around like toddlers. Many wondered if the lack of an equal like the KGB had something to do with that. The Russians were masters of espionage if nothing else and kept the west on its toes for sure. The fact they themselves loved chess was something to note as well. If the SCO can't get them to get their heads out of their asses, nothing can.
It was clear the Lieutenant Colonel wasn't crazy about the situation either. "Bowman has been handling the case regarding Santa Blanca for a few years now. It was on her request that this operation was concocted in the first place. Nomad's past op in Venezuela has much to do with it."
"If I may, Lieutenant Colonel?" Bowman asked, trying to be courteous about it. "Nomad, was it? Do you recognize this man?" The projector showed the picture of a Mexican man speaking to some guerrilla-looking types. A fancy black cowboy hat with white trims and a western-styled suit. Man looked aged to his 50s, a small, stylish mustache and a gold ring on one hand.
"I do." Nomad said. "Those Amazonas Free State fellas showed me to him when I got caught. He didn't seem really interested."
"THAT is Octavio Allende, better known as El Pulpo, The Octopus. He's the head accountant for the Santa Blanca Cartel. And like his namesake he has a hand in everything. He was sent there to find partners for the cartel in their smuggling operation and maybe get a trade for oil." Bowman explained.
"Hold on a minute." Midas began. "So those Watchgate guys were working with a cartel as well as those Amazonas guys?"
Bowman gave a short nod. "At the time, yes. Their main partners were the Amazonas, Santa Blanca's interest in the area fell after you tore the place up though. That said, this is why I am here and why you are being called up."
"Bowman already spoke to other outfits. Delta, DEVGRU, RRC, they all recommended us." Mitchell added.
"I call bull." Holt began. "Navy SEALS wouldn't shift responsibility to other groups. How else would they write their books?"
"See? This is what happens when we get as good as we are and start declassifying things, people eventually start pointing the finger to you." Gaucho said. "I am betting they'll know about us when we strike."
"In any case, Santa Blanca has already proven they are a threat to national security with this attack." Mitchell assured.
Weaver spoke next. "I'm assuming this isn't simple law enforcement then?"
"No." Bowman said shaking her head. "This is a joint task force between the CIA, the DEA, and now JSOC, I'll be your resident spook for this ride. Welcome to Operation Kingslayer." As she spoke, the projector cycled through a presentation of slides.
"Our field of operation is Bolivia. dense jungles, freezing mountains, and salt flats. Your target is the Santa Blanca Drug Cartel. Their network relies on fear, violence, and intimidation. You'll need to destabilize each aspect of their operations; Production, Smuggling, Influence, and Security to bring them to their knees. You'll be working with in-country assets and have full autonomy. You pick your targets, you decide how to take them out. Just get it done. To make this Op a real party, the local military force, Unidad, are confirmed on the cartel's payroll. They've been fighting it out with a low-rent rebel group called Katari's Hand and our own agency boys. You want to survive? These underfunded and under-equipped rebels are your new best friends. You already know how to think, how to be strategic. But you need to understand no one will come when you call for help. Use what you can to get the job done. you have your arsenal and every vehicle you can find at your disposal. And don't be afraid to throw out the playbook."
"Shit, lady. Sounds like you're getting us ready for an action schlop." Holt joked. "This how you brief all your field agents?"
"A contingent of local guerrillas?" Wolf asked.
"Yes, like I said, they're Katari's Hand." The slide changed to a picture of dozens of fighters in a range of clothing. Most were in the green/olive-colored fatigues you expect guerrillas to wear, red berets, AKs the works. A few others however had some strange attire in the form of colorful shirts and hats. Pinks, blues, oranges, and those bowler-looking hats you see people in Bolivia wear. All in a patched style that seemed to mimic the Wiphala flag. "A group of rebels who've been giving Unidad and Santa Blanca some resistance. We'll meet their second-in-command, Pac Katari, as soon as we hit the ground. The Bolivians have a long history of hating us Yankees but this time, let's hope the enemy of my enemy will be my friend. But don't turn your back on him, I'm not going to."
"Lemme guess... these are the run of the mill socialists who preach about the means of production and empowering the worker?" Gaucho asked rhetorically, some annoyance in his voice.
"Unfortunately so." Bowman responded.
"Ooooooooof course." Nomad breathed.
"Katari's Hand... named after Tupac Katari." Midas said.
"Can't say I'm familiar with the man." Bowman responded.
"He was an indigenous Aymara leader of a rebellion in a region of colonial Peru against the Spanish Crown back in 1781. If the records are to be believed he wasn't too kind to his own people. He's recorded as to have said he would return as thousands before being executed. Looks like these rebels are making that a reality."
Red spoke next. "What about this army unit, this Unidad?"
"Military police special forces unit." As she spoke, a few slides appeared showing black-clad men with tactical body armor, riot helmets, red stripes and red face paint here and there. They definitely had the resources for modern gear. R5 rifles, armored vehicles and helicopters. "They were formed as an effort to resist the cartel. It didn't go well as bodies piled up from civilians caught in the crossfire. Eventually the government came to an agreement. 'Stop killing our people and we won't interfere.' As you can guess, it was pretty one-sided in Santa Blanca's favor."
Some mutters between the men. There's a reason you don't shake hands with the devil, the road to hell is filled with good intentions, and this is probably the biggest sign of it yet.
"You're already aware of the bombing in La Paz. Two marine embassy guards were injured in the blast. Two days later, a CIA asset in central Bolivia provided us with these images. Our analysts have identified the individual in the photo as DEA Special Agent Ricardo Ricky Sandoval... my friend. Sandoval has- had spent the last six years investigating the local cocaine industry. Our understanding is that Sandoval was the intended target of the bombing. What the embassy bomb did not accomplish was completed up-close-and-personal. Sandoval was captured, tortured, and killed. Then his body was dumped. We have yet to recover it. Our target, the group responsible for the embassy bombing and the death of Special Agent Sandoval is the drug-trafficking organization commonly known as the Santa Blanca Cartel. Yesterday they were just narcos. Today, they're narco terrorists. There's no telling how far they'll go."
"What about NAJSA?" Tech began. "Capable or not, NAJSA has been instrumental in stopping that kinda shit from hitting Mexico, let alone crossing into our side of the border. I mean it hasn't stopped it altogether but the fact it's there, you really think they'll try something that crazy?"
Bowman nodded again. "I'm certain. We know they have some contacts in Mexico so they can get into the US and Canada."
"And Europe." Weaver added matter-of-factly.
"Exactly. A major drug bust made the news in the Netherlands. It's quite a source of pride for the Dutch Police." Mitchell said.
"That polvo blanco finds its way anywhere. Whatever happened to just drinking some damn coffee?" Gaucho grumbled.
"The Santa Blanca Cartel is divided into four operations. Production: The creation of their product. Smuggling: Getting it from A to B. Security: The protection of cartel assets and killing of their enemies. Influence: The public relations department so to speak. Their Production Pipeline is headed by a Bolivian national named El Yayo, The Grandfather." A picture of an old man was shown. Full head of hair, a stern face with wrinkles, facial hair, and some fancy clothes.
"Not gonna lie he's giving off some badass grandpa vibes." Holt pointed out.
"Maybe it's just how he looks."
Bowman continued. "It starts with harvesting their coca plant leaves. Only two species of coca contain usable levels of cocaine, believe it or not. Strip the leaves, dry them, chop them up, and send them to the lab. That's where this chick comes in." The picture changed to a much younger woman. Lucious blonde hair, blue eyes and a lab coat. "La Gringa here is a Swedish chemist with Mensa level IQ and subzero morality numbers. They take the chopped leaves, dust them with lime. Then pour diesel fuel all over them then stir for three days. Most use washing machines or a cement mixer. But Santa Blanca does it by hand, they then pour sulfur acid and caustic soda into it, and you have coca paste. Once dried and given more acid, it becomes powder. Yellow powder that is given more acid and some potassium, pyrolusite, a dash of ammonia and... pure white cocaine."
"Bowman. Is there a reason you're going in-depth with how the process is done?" Mitchell asked getting impatient.
"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel. Because Santa Blanca figured it out. How to mass produce a custom product. Plant genetics, logistics, mechanization, state of the art labs, reduction of redundancies, quality control, purity of chemicals. They're geniuses. They brought cocaine production into the 22nd century. They did for the lab what Henry Ford did for the factory."
"So they quite literally made a product of this garbage?" Wolf asked incredulously.
"Down to their label on the packaging." A photo brought up confirming the case. There it was, a load of cocaine blocks with a stylized SB and sickle on it.
"Jeez, they really have confidence in their image." Red muttered.
"La Gringa here is the underboss for El Yayo. How does a Ph.D. from MIT end up as the Chief Chemist for Santa Blanca? Well like all cynics she started out as an idealist. You know the type. She was part of the NGO Hands Over Bolivia doing research for a vaccine for Yellow Fever, but then came the news that HOB was linked to the US government, and you know just how much people love to vilify that shit. She wasn't involved, but when has the average Joe cared? In time Santa Blanca found her and offered her a job. Now once made, this hits the Cocaine Superhighway. Every year, more than three-hundred-fifty tons of coke leaves Bolivia reaching about 20 million users worldwide. While NAJSA keeps most of it out of North America, that cocaine still finds comfortable homes in Europe, Africa, and Asia."
"I take it Australia is off-limits because of the giant spiders and fuck-off crocs?" Holt joked, getting a few chuckles from everyone involved.
"This means they're pulling an average of two billion dollars per week."
"And people wonder how they can get fancy toys." Weaver grumbled.
Bowman again continued. "This is all coordinated by head of smuggling, Nidia Flores, la Reina de Belleza, the Beauty Queen." The portrait was of a black-haired beauty with a Christian cross necklace and dark brown eyes with full lips. The name was well-deserved. "And her right-hand man, the ravishing, the bewitching, the delectable, El Boquita." The man had facial hair, beard and mustache in a conservative trim with a fairly flamboyant shirt and white cowboy hat. "You see these guys on the news and see monsters. The problem is you don't see the whole picture. They're geniuses as I said. You see breasts, Nidia sees opportunity. You see scrap metal, Nidia sees submarines. You see Holy Water, Nidia sees liquid cocaine. If we want to shut down the highway. We hit the drugs, the money, and then her. As for El Boquita... well every man has a flaw, and El Boquita's is love. He was a smuggler since six. His father used to tape Acapulco gold on his son's body and send him across the border. They called these trips family vacations. Come the age of 13 he became a master smuggler. He moved cigarettes, alcohol, name-brand clothes, DVDs, oil, wildlife, weapons, and of course, people. One time he even smuggled half a kilo of yellowcake uranium."
"Whoa whoa whoa, did you just say uranium?" Nomad's shock wasn't exclusive.
Tech answered with, "It's not that dangerous. Has a half-life of four million years, emits radiation VERY slowly. As for how he got it... who knows."
"Well I guess we know why he looks ugly." Holt added.
Bowman continued. "Just proof that if someone wanted it, El Boquita could move it. But it was never about the money, it was the rush. Until he met Nidia. She made him her right-hand man. The brain and brawn. Thing is he was head over heels for her, and of course she never reciprocated his feelings until one drunken night. A little bit of roulette... and they had a daughter named Valeria. They say every man has a fatal flaw. El Boquita has two."
"And his greatest strength." Gaucho said. "Family is a fatal weakness, but it's also the purest form of strength."
"You'd know, would ya, amigo?" Tech responded with a playful slug on the shoulder.
"Knock it off you two." Wolf ordered.
"How much you wanna bet they'd give the Army Material Command a run for their money?" Midas asked.
"None. The cartel doesn't work with shit tons of supplies like they do." Nomad responded.
"Of course you're wondering how they get away with it outside of being sneaky. Well, that's why they have their security forces. Say hello to Francisco Ricardo Mungia. El Muro, The Wall, childhood friend and personal bodyguard to El Sueño." The portrait showed a man with considerable tattoos underneath a shirt. This covered by a vest with magazines and other utilities. He clearly looked the type to be in his line of work. "He's named 'The Wall' as no one gets over him, no one gets under him, and no one gets around him. Former Mexican Army, Mexican Special Forces Corps. Did time protecting local narcos and getting paid for it until joining Santa Blanca. From there, their security took off.
"SBC Security Forces recruit hard and train harder. Instructors from South Africa, Russia, and unfortunately even the good ol' U.S. of A. Polygraphs, first of every month. Pass, you get your paycheck. Fail, yeah don't fail. Even so, El Muro had a system of his own. Their sicarios- AKA gunmen- get intense training in marksmanship, surveillance, driving. Two-thirds washout and become halcones, lookouts. Those who make it become specialists. Enforcers, guards for labs and shipments, hitmen. Some become drivers, surveillance specialists, spies, and torturers."
"They basically have their own private army then. This just got a lot more interesting." Weaver noted.
"Well... I always wanted to fight a drug lord's posse." Wolf mused crossing his arms.
Bowman continued. "Just below El Muro is Santa Blanca's head sicario. Ignacia Perez Cervantes, La Plaga, The Plague." The image was a man in the same cowboy style they've seen so far, all black, short bit facial hair on the chin with two streaks leading to the mouth and a rather nasty smirk. The biggest, yet unsurprising thing was he was sitting in a giant throne-like chair in a fancy room. A shiny and fancy plated AK in one hand and a wineglass in the other. More pictures of parties, gold-trimmed cars and fancy houses followed. "You may ask how does a showoff party boy rise to be the second in command of Santa Blanca's security? Answer: Family. La Plaga is El Muro's little brother. But don't kid yourself, he's one of the nastiest motherfuckers alive. And yes, I have seen the Internet. El Muro had him trained well. Paid off Russian mercenaries who were former Spetsnaz to teach him combat tactics. Sent him to learn killing techniques from death squads in El Salvador and Honduras. He was a good student. His favorite subject? Cutting off a person's face and showing it to them. But as you see he loves the spotlight. He pays narco-corrido bands to write songs about him. He has his own camera crew. He has his own fucking YouTube channel. He's a walking recruitment message. Young men see what he has and want it. The girls wanna get wifed up. But as you can guess, half of what he posts aren't messages to his followers. They're to his enemies." As if to drive home the point, a video played of a view inside a shanty shed. People were hung from the ceiling by their ankles and bags over their heads. And in the middle was La Plaga starting up a chainsaw. The rest was rather straightforward, and gruesome.
"So we have a cartel with the ability to mass produce product, the smarts to transport it and the men to protect it. And lemme guess. like every other scumbag out there they have the hearts and minds on their side?" Wolf asked rhetorically.
"Correct. Smart fucks that they are, they know it's not enough to control the events. You have to control the story. The head of their Influence is El Cardenal, a true believer in Santa Muerte. If you're trying to influence people, it pays to have God on your side."
"Santa Muerte." Midas repeated. "Female deity and folk saint in Mexico who personifies death and is associated with protection until the afterlife."
"Correct." Bowman replied. "Because let's be honest, there's some things even God won't do for ya. El Cardenal is on the radio, TV, live appearances, concerts. El Sueño uses bribery and fear. El Cardenal uses the soul. How would you like to avoid eternal damnation? Well, all you have to do is support the Santa Blanca Cartel, and you will. On the other end is Ramon Feliz the narco blogger. Don't let his demeanor fool you, he's the SB's media maven." The appearance was modest. Simple short hair, glasses, a yellow shirt and a look that wouldn't hurt a fly.
"A tragic case. He used to be an actual journalist, trying to expose the Cartel for the monsters they are. But they got to him and now he posts like his life depends on it. Probably does knowing the Cartel. Blog, Twitter, YouTube, Facebook. These two are the public and the private of the influence machine. All answer to the Jefe of Jefes. El Sueño." And there was a picture and video playing of the man himself. A bald man with greenish-brown eyes and a dead blank stare. His face covered with a complex tattoo of a stylized cross, the only untouched parts of his skin being within the cross composing his eyes, nose and most of his mouth. The video was taken from a drone from the top down. No faces could be seen and no audio played, but it needed neither of them for the point to be made. It was outside a house in a small village. There was El Sueño himself with a cadre of men with him. All in white with black body armor and other accessories. Before them, a woman and three children in front of a wall. On the ground nearby a bruised and beaten man in a uniform... a cop. The video details identified this being in Bolivia.
A turn of the head as Sueño looked to the man on the ground. Some words were said clearly. Then a lift of the arm. Four pops of a pistol. Four dead civilians. Then Sueño casually stepped over and placed his shoe on the officer's neck. No doubt crushing his throat. Not with a sudden violent stop, but a slow and casual step as though going for a walk and stopping to enjoy the view.
"Okay... I'm sure you've seen the horrible, fucked up shit humans are capable of when there are zero repercussions." Bowman began, delving into the scale of what they were getting into, "But as you can see, no matter how you compartmentalize how you desensitize, you can't prepare for El Sueño."
"Jefe of jefes, the head of the Cartel. Dude is built like Shaquille O'Neal and has enough tattoos to make bikers and skinheads green with envy." Holt stated.
"Not wrong." Bowman said, containing some laughter, "but it's not just that. He's got a religious streak that rates pretty close to delusional. He's taken vows of poverty, chastity. If he's not in it for the chocho or the money he's in it for the power."
"Thank you, Bowman. If you please, I'd like to speak with my men privately." Bowman got the hint and left the room, leaving the Ghosts be. "Okay Ghosts, you'll be deployed into Bolivia via HALO drop into Chiquisaca Department, into a region that's been dubbed "Itacua province." That's where the rebels got started and are still going strong. From what intel we have their leader, Amaru, was captured recently. So we'll need to move quickly in order to help them get back on their feet. In addition, Bowman mentioned assets in the field already. CIA SOG and DEA SRTs who've been working alongside the rebels will work with you on the overall objective. The footprint is big enough as it is without us, I don't need to tell you how much more we need to keep track of with us being added to this mess."
"Credit is failure, sir." Wolf responded.
"It's not just that. As you know, you're Ghosts, so whatever gear you bring is up to you. But I recommend using more common equipment from what we're used to. M4s, SCARs, M110s, you get the idea. Be less of a headache for the paper pushers to keep track of and easier to maintain with supplies from the agency folks. Caseless rifles will likely be hindered by the changing environments you'll be getting into. May be a good idea to leave the big boy toys home."
A few more pointers after, the teams departed the briefing room towards the armory to collect their gear.
"I gotta tell you, working with the CIA is one thing. But the rebels? I'm not comfortable working with their lot. Their ideology tends to end with a lot more bodies in the ground." Weaver admitted.
"I second that. Complexities of real life and history of the world be damned." Red muttered. "Even when we left 'Nam they went through a load of violence, not to mention the later wars with Cambodia and China."
Wolf cleared his throat. "Better the devil we knew for half a century than the devil we knew for a decade. Socialists and their aligned rebels eventually fall apart from the failures of their ideology. Cartels are motivated by money, and that's a hell of a lot harder to stop."
Noman spoke next. "At the end of the day, this is a revenge mission." Of course he was asked why that was... but it made sense as they thought about it. Sure, sure, the CIA types never struck one as the type to let personal feelings get in the way. "She never outright said so but the way she spoke about that Sandoval guy those couple times she definitely seemed down. Never mind she brought up how the bomb was supposed to kill him and only then did we get dragged into it."
Wolf gave a low curse. "So, once again the CIA is getting us to clean up their mess. Having their little adventures across the globe and soldiers like us have to pay for it."
"Considering they already have SOG types down there and that the DEA also has some men there. Are we REALLY going to make things better? Seems like a clusterfuck unravelling." Midas added with uncertainty. Silence followed for a moment. Thoughts churning in Nomad's head. All the nonsense happening with the CIA's mishaps wasn't wrong. The video however, that was the kicker. The thing that nagged at them. You hear about people doing shit and know it could be true or not. Ethnic cleansing here, arms dealing there, but when you see it firsthand it hits you like a brick. It's something Nomad never got accustomed to.
"You guys see that video?" He asked.
"Brutal shit. Gotta imagine that wasn't a one-time deal." Holt noted, rather quietly.
"Question is... let's say we succeed and blow the cartel away. Will it end well, or will shit just turn to anarchy?" Weaver asked.
"Bolivia has had its fair share of problems before Santa Blanca showed up, but it's hard to see how bad it might get without them." Midas answered.
Weaver scoffed. "We thought the same thing about Saddam Hussein. Evil man or no he kept things in check. We remove him, every insurgent and their mother decides to fuck it all up." Weaver wasn't wrong. The plan for after Saddam was admittedly poorly executed up until the Blacklist. Even then a few incidents and some resentment stuck around. But for the most part Iraq was currently calm. It just took so long to get there.
"South America is a different beast altogether, that's for sure. The borders tend to be established along landmarks and most of the conflicts come from within between governments and rebels. The military strongman using the army to keep the people down and submissive, which leads to the rebellions rising. Funny thing is this is a reflection of the state's weakness given from the absence of wars in South America compared to Europe. Conflicts there over the centuries have been short and not as destructive. Geography played a part in this as well. Little frontier space leading to less need for claiming land."
"So you're saying that nations in South America ae the way they are because they don't fight as much?" Nomad asked.
"That's one of the theories. A book called Blood and Debt: War in the Nation State in Latin America goes over it. The author, a Miguel Centeno talks about how while the army does exist the infrastructure to keep it running doesn't. They lack the capacity for large armies and the taxes necessary. Throw in the geography and there's less reasons to fight. They also see themselves as Sister Republics if you will. It's the civil wars that the continent has had a lot of. It's not the nation next door that's the enemy, but the population of one's own country. These are usually indigenous folks like the Aymara people in Bolivia or Katari's Hand, who tend to be communists and leftists." Midas explained. "It's just a basic way of looking at it though, and the truth resists simplicity."
Gaucho gave a few nods. "There is much truth in that. My father would often recall the history of South America when I was a boy. He teaches history at a school."
"And of course if you got a war goin on you wanna keep it short. These nations do indeed have resources they make revenue off of exporting. Otherwise they can be paid for by loans from the US or the UK or whoever so long as you let the CIA have a stake in your government." Wolf grumbled.
Nomad sighed. "That's where the problem is beginning. If we go into this op we need to get in and out before we get caught between the local politics and a storm of cartel bullets."
Armory
K.C. Kirkland was among the greenest of the Ghosts from Mitchell's time, having made a name for himself in the Mexican Rebellion.
When he wasn't in the field, he helped look after the armory along with Marcus Brown and Derrick Parker. As in the original AND the Ghost armory to be exact. Having access to the latest gear meant they had to have a building to themselves. Even the men who shared a base with them didn't get to see the good stuff until it's official debut or in the field of battle. That meant not only was Kirkland among the very first to see the new stuff, but they got to catalogue and maintain them as well as teach the others about how to use them.
"Listen up!" His voice came, powerful but reserved. "So you're off to Bolivia, huh? That's some rough country. Check this out." He handed each Ghost a tablet. On it was a picture of the country with different shades of colors covering its entirety. It was labelled with the Koppen-Geiger climate classification. Bolivia had sizeable portions of every range from tropical rainforest to polar frost. The largest being tropical savannah. "Sand, snow, dirt, mud, water, pines, desert, you name it, Bolivia has it. You won't be able to pack a one-set-suits-all loadout. That can't be helped, BUT we have something to make it much easier as far as your physical comfort goes... new batch actually. Brown! You remember those suits that came in?"
The man approached from around the corner, a big case in his large arms. His time as a football player made him into a mountain of a man. His demeanor of a talkative-always-friendly man however just made him everyone's older brother. He put the case down and opened it up, inside was a pair of pants and a shirt with a classic M81 color scheme. They bore an appearance to the Cyre combat shirt and pants with the elbow pads and collar. But it seemed more like some bodysuit than the standard clothes a special ops soldier would wear.
"This right here is the latest from DARPA." Brown began. "Something they've been working on since late 2004. They're calling it the X-ASBS suit. The experimental All-Season Ballistic Suit. From what the developers told us the fabric of the suit is interwoven with Kevlar on the outer layer, RhinoPlate as the core material, and made of seventh generation Gore-Tex for the inner layer, allowing it to reduce damage caused by bullets with relatively low velocity, such as pistol rounds and assault rifle rounds fired from long range. That don't mean you're bulletproof though, so stick to cover like you normally would and treat the suit like a safety net."
"Awww maaaaan. I was hoping to finally be Iron Man." Holt said jokingly.
"This seems too good to be true." Red noted. "A vest is one thing, but a whole suit? I think I'll stick to ducking and covering."
"Yeah, that's still theoretical. Tests in labs say yes but it's dubious if you ask me. That's not the big thing, however. It's also designed to mask the wearer from both thermal optics and infrared sensors. But it gets better. If the eggheads are to be believed, the Gore-Tex is tested to maintain core body temperatures down to 15 degrees Fahrenheit with a hood up, and as high as 110 degrees. The user can theoretically go 'from Alaska to the Sahara' and stay relatively comfortable. In addition, it's supposed to be virtually waterproof."
"You mean no more wet socks, shriveled boxers or tattered shirts? Sign me up!" Holt cried enthusiastically.
"Mmmm I can't lie that does sound nice." Gaucho said. "But I'll believe it when I see it."
"Well, then how'd you like to try it on first?" Kirkland's offer was taken immediately.
"Hell no, I call dibs." Tech retorted.
"Get your own. I called it first!" Was Holt's answer.
Nomad chuckled. "Like schoolkids fighting over a toy." Holt took the shirt and pants and was directed to a changing room. He came out moments later, his body basically covered aside from gloves and a balaclava. A few snickers coming from the assembled men.
"You look like a goddam superhero wanna-be." Red said, the slightest hint of a grin forming. "I'm packing basic essentials anyway. If you guys are smart you will too. If for no other reason than to stay lowkey."
"What? You mean OCP and a gaggle of the latest assault rifles wouldn't be blatant enough? Maybe if we walk around without our guns we'll blend right in." Tech sarcastically responded.
"Not like we're gonna walk around screaming, 'We're Americans and we're here to kill sicarios.'" Holt added.
"Gimmick or not, if it works as they say it'll be an asset for snipers. Add a big of ghillie parts to break up the silhouette of a human and we have a winning recipe." Midas noted optimistically. Weaver gave a few nods.
"Really, so long as they can't ID us, they can't do anything except shoot as us." Weaver interjected. "Even if they suspect we're Americans, they can't do anything without proof. As for the locals? For all they know we're just well-armed mercenaries or some other foreign agents with fancy toys. Just remember it works both ways. Means we'll be pissing in the wind if things go wrong."
"And things WON'T go wrong. I'm not gonna repeat what happened in Venezuela. We're going to make plans and carry them out when we're certain they'll work. Understood?" Nomad stated.
"Beats running through caiman-infested waters." Holt joked.
Kirkland spoke. "Now for protection, I imagine you can't go wrong with the MSV." Modular Scalable Vests. Announced back in 2018 and tested by Ghosts until its debut a year later, the MSV is meant to replace the Interceptor Body Armor and the Soldier Plate Carrier System. Coming in 5 pounds lighter when loaded with plates compared to its predecessor at 25 pounds. Nothing exotic or advanced, but it also had four configurations. It would be perfect for this op. Tactical carrier, shoulder pads, soft armor ballistic inserts, plate inserts, ballistic combat shirt, pelvis blast protector, and a load distributor system. The shirt was unnecessary, replaced by the body suit or whatever was chosen for in the field.
For headwear, Integrated Head Protection System helmets. Announced back in 2013, the helmet intends to replace the Advanced Combat Helmet and the Enhanced Combat Helmet. Developed by the Army's PEO Soldier's SPS, the helmet was made with the same idea as the MSV. More protection, less weight. Possessing a boltless chinstrap, eliminating ballistic weak points along with an optional mandible with an eye shield and side rails for equipment. The helmet also had a proprietary rail-mounted adapter for headsets. This was connected to the CROSS-COM.
"We got plenty of AN/PSQ-42s from the Mexican wars." Third-generation passive binocular night vision device combining image intensifying and thermal-imaging technologies into one goggle. Both of which can be used together or separately. It can display a compass and augmented reality data from the Integrated Warfighter System.
"Ohhhhhhh I remember these. I LOVE them." Tech shouted out making to grab his set. "Nice to see something that's not the four-eyed set."
"It looks like the sets that came before." Red commented, a tone of teasing humor in his voice.
"Yeah, but it's what's inside that counts."
"You know those things are five years old now. They're all old and mass-produced."
"Oh don't you ruin this for me, Elmer." Tech retorted.
"There they go again." Wolf breathed with amusement. These two always got at one another. Tech calling Josiah 'Elmer' as a reference to the Looney Tunes character. A better name than the label 'fudd' which many gun users who prefer older hunting style weapons get labeled as. Josiah took it like it was nothing, often shooting back with 'Laser Brain.'
"Red's right about one thing. Probably be a good idea we don't all go out kitted like we're from 2030." Wolf noted. "Some of us should use the more tried and tested things if for no other reason than to keep Josiah here from having an ulcer."
"Ahhhh shove off." Red responded with a grin.
Kirkland spoke up. "That is a good idea. Plenty of the white phosphorus types that are slowly finding traction in the form of the PS15s and L3 Harris types. And we all know how much our fellow soldiers love those models. Best pack a few other things. Cyre shirts, kneepads, whatever you feel is best. As for weapons, I think it's a good idea to stick to the basics. Not only will it prevent you from getting swamped from the possibility of malfunctions, but it will allow you to use parts and ammo you may find down there. Being South America as well as a cartel's turf it'll be rough ground. It would be smart to grab M4s, maybe some SCARs. Ultimately it's up to you."
For the most part everyone was in agreement on that part. It was better to stick with older, more proven weaponry as opposed to newer systems. The Modular Rifle Caseless that became popular with ground pounders, as well as the likes of the Rx4 and older M8 rifles, were used by the Ghosts for a good few years. Given the scope of the operation however, it was decided to avoid the use of caseless ammunition lest it get soaked as well as more advanced designs. Instead the Ghosts would use weapons that could easily take ammunition and if necessary, parts from the local environment much like MACV-SOG did in Vietnam. It would also ALLOW the weapons procurement boys in the SOG and DEA camps get what they need AND help keep the real exciting high-tech experimental things from 'slipping through the cracks.'
Nomad's own being the lesser-known P416. As opposed to the German made HK416 so widely known, the P416 is an American creation from Patriot Ordinance Factory. There were the usual attachments one would expect aside from the silencer every other Ghost had with them. Vertical grip, a MAWL laser sight, and a Trijicon ACOG scope with a red dot on top. As a secondary he did some digging, but he managed to find an AK-104, with a short barreled rifle for mobility, Comp M4 red dot and vertical grip.
Wolf had an Adaptive Combat Rifle mounted with an EOTech holosight and magnifier, APTIALx3 laser, and short stubby vertical grip. It was an original from Magpul as opposed to the Remington and Bushmaster variants that are commonly known. The privileges of being a Ghost showing. For a secondary, a KRISS Vector coming with a silencer, and Aimpoint Micro T1 sight.
Holt had a Mk. 17 Mod 0. the H variant of the SCAR rifle chambered in 7.62 with an extended stock and an ACOG with a MAWL laser. As a backup he had a Vector .45 with a laser sight and T-1 sight and stubby grip. Along with a Mk13 grenade launcher. Red went with a TAR-21 rifle with an ECLAN scope and AN/PEQ-15A laser. As a secondary he grabbed an AK-104 of his own which was mostly left as is save a Comp M4 sight and silencer
Midas took to a Stoner 96 LMG. Foregrip, ACOG sight, silencer, and a short barrel. For a backup he had a Serbu SUPER-SHORTY shotgun. A very compact modified Mossberg 590 with two shots. A backup weapon if there ever was one. Tech, true to his personality opted for an Rx4 Storm. A rifle created by the Benneli company, it was made as a special order from the DoD compared to the public variant and saw action in Mexico. But it's similarity to the likes of the Cx4 carbine and Px4 pistol was in name only. The ARGO system improves cycling and reliability and comes with minimal vibrations for handling. After the war it had picked up traction with special forces across NATO, becoming a real competitor against the SCAR and HK models. He grabbed a Comp M4 sight with a MAWL and foregrip. As a backup he went with a more conservative choice in the Honey Badger with a holosight and stubby grip.
Lastly, Weaver packed heavy firepower. An MSR sniper with a Leupold Mark 4 scope along with an AN/PVS-29 clip-on sniper night sight. Bipod included. His backup being a Mk 14 Mod 0 battle rifle with an ECLAN scope and silencer. Gaucho himself took an M4 much like Midas' and for a backup a FAL rifle. Just as ubiquitous as the M4 and AK down in South America with a Trijicon sight. It was a menagerie of different makes and models, seemingly a headache to keep track of let alone maintain alongside water, food and other supplies. Just another day in the army.
Finally, their newly minted face masks. These were shortly introduced after 2016. The mouth of their skull emblem based on their face paint patterns and CBRN mask. There would be no denying it would help with intimidation, something the cartel valued all too well. Never mind few even knew what the symbol looked like. It quickly became a favorite for the Ghosts, becoming tied to their image like the Green Beret's namesake.
Though this did mean Ghosts had to shave now, something Nomad had to get used to compared to his Delta days.
Bolivian Airspace. Over Chisuisaca Dept.
Having traveled miles upon miles down south into Bolivia via cargo plane, Nomad still had trouble coming to terms with the reality of having a CIA spook now looking over his shoulder, let alone giving him orders.
During the long ride, the Ghosts debated this entire thing. Trust in the CIA was at an all-time low. Never mind the fact they knew Santa Blanca was operating with the Amazonas BEFORE the entire operation there. All of this being said they did agree on one thing with this operation. Santa Blanca deserved to get wiped out. Holt's experiences with drugs adding to it. He tried cocaine off-duty twice. The second time because he was so wasted the first time. It was all to experience what it was like, and needless to say it wasn't worth it. This was just reinforcement for his stance he had all his life. He lived in a community that was hit hard by drugs. Oxycodone and other illicit substances. To add onto it he lost friends and family to it from death and prison sentences. Never mind the violence that erupted due to its sale. Weaver was on board, seeing how much of a threat Santa Blanca was. They were terrorists even before the whole bombing as far as he was concerned. Midas, being the most emotional of the bunch saw it as a moral obligation if anything. Not for himself, but for everyone down there in the muck. Tech went along with it simply because those were the orders, that and he had a nurtured hatred of those in the business of organized crime. Wolf and Red were on the same page, Santa Blanca were animals and deserved to die. Gaucho, well Gaucho was well aware of America's history with drugs and how many Central and South American groups took advantage of it while his people's name was dragged through the muck. Finally, Nomad was convinced the moment he saw the execution video.
It still didn't mean they were one hundred percent on board with it, and it certainly didn't mean they wouldn't keep eyes on the back of their heads. The last thing they needed was for the CIA to abandon them or for the rebels to decide they weren't needed.
"The agent they murdered." Nomad began on the radio to Bowman, a neutral toned voice. "You knew him?"
"He was a friend of mine." Bowman replied, a tone of pained honesty in her own voice. It wasn't a lie, that at least seemed for sure. But an honest person, a friend does not make.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
She sighed. "I wish I could say it comes with the job but it doesn't get any easier."
"No. It doesn't." Was his only answer. 'Then again that's what they all say.' He didn't add. He looked back out the window to the countryside they flew over. Night was upon them and the clouds showed chances of rain.
"Guess you've been down here a while?" Wolf asked.
"I've been working as an international aid worker for just about five years." So she's been here for a long time, that was some stress off of Nomad's mind. These types either had hands on experience or were far removed from the theater. "Means living rough. But it gets me out and about, gives me cover."
"At least it comes with a chopper." Nomad replied.
"Meanwhile we got first class but no food service. Didn't even get a pack of peanuts." Holt whined.
"Knowing you, you'd be begging for five by now." Weaver spoke up.
"More like the whole pantry." Tech joked. When all else failed, the banter of men always made things better.
"I didn't want to say it back home, but I heard rumors about you guys. I was a rookie field officer in Moscow when the coup went down. There was talk you were involved?" And there came the question none of them wanted to hear. Whether it was Bowman doing basic CIA prying or just trying to make small-talk, the effect was the same. It's the sort of thing that leads to hero worship as far as Nomad was concerned, that was as dangerous as being totally reviled. You become blind to reality, incapable of either criticizing or congratulating respectively. Leaving one incapable of objective analysis. Never mind the fact that it was shit like this that led to blabbing and getting people killed.
"You sure? I heard it was SEALs or Delta." He said, a clear lie.
"It's not every day you get to meet an urban legend in the flesh." So she clearly knew... figured.
"Huh... should tell that to my kid. Maybe he'd listen when I tell him to take the trash out." Nomad tried sounding as disinterested as he could, hoping the conversation would turn to something else.
"Is it hard being someone who doesn't officially exist?" Nomad was getting fed up already.
"Hey Bowman." Wolf began. "How 'bout you stick to makin plans and secret agendas? Seems to be all the CIA is good for these days." Silence reigned after the blunt refusal of the banter. Nomad turned back to look at the area, currently they were over a massive lake with what looked like a bunch of resorts and hotels at the coasts. Not a big surprise, who wouldn't want to go to a resort to a place like this?
"All the nature and cocaine a sleazy politician can get. What's not to love?" Holt joked. From what the briefing contained and what Nomad heard from the news with his own digging, Bolivia was a perfect spot for that. Apparently basic activities like golf weren't enough. Maybe the news had something to do with that.
"Okay boys!" The loadmaster shouted. "Prepare for drop, prepare for drop! We'll be dropping you over Chiquisaca. Get yourselves ready!"
"Welp. End of the line." Given the fact there was already assets in the field along with rebel support, the Ghosts would be dropping as is without much in the way of extra supplies. Rucking would make up a lot of the travel time. When necessary, they would separate to cover more ground and draw less attention. Well as little attention as men like they would get.
"Here we are, about to fall into the wildlands like lightning from the sky. Does anyone wanna say a few words before we go?" Wolf asked.
Holt took the chance. "Yeah. If I die, burn my hard drive. Just burn it, drop it in the ocean, and bury it under a rock at the bottom of the sea. Just get rid of that shit. And don't even think about looking at what's on it."
"Very encouraging." Gaucho responded blandly.
Once everything was prepared, the teams stood side by side as the loadmaster opened the bay doors. Nomad and his team took to the new bodysuits along with Tech. The rest sticking to more traditional garb and gear. As for the AN/PSQ-42s. It was across the board that everyone grabbed a pair save Wolf and Red. They grabbed pairs of the PS15 models with white phosphorous tech. All gear in a range of olive colors. Last but not least, each Ghost activated their CROSS-COM
System starting... standby.
...
...
...
System online. CROSS-COM active.
Version 2.5
Appearing as a large earbud with a microphone and a screen over the user's left eye. The CROSS-COM at first seems like just some fancy glowing Bluetooth that will only give away one's position. But anyone who's used one would say it's the best thing since ammo magazines or GPS guidance. First debuting in the Mexican Wars and based on similar systems used by fighter pilots, the CROSS-COM is a completely wireless wearable computer system with a hands-free Head Up Display (HUD) that overlays information onto the soldier's vision, enabling soldiers to perform in the field faster and more effectively. It allows the soldier to remain fully aware of what is happening around them while receiving information from satellites, other forces and even unmanned support drones.
Its function is to identify enemy soldiers and vehicles, connect with other electronic devices that have video camera, show maps, communicate with other Ghost operators, and others functions that will help with the information of the battlegrounds. The CROSS-COM creates an image by using a beam of light which optically guides an image directly to the user's eye. The specially coated ocular piece is optimized to allow the image to be reflected into the user's eye, while simultaneously allowing the user to continue to see the outside world unhindered. The result is a crystal-clear image combining image data and the real world.
The ability to see the superimposed data and see the real world at the same time allows the soldier to be hands-free while on the battlefield, receiving the information they need with complete situational awareness. It means instead of looking at a map or a computer screen, the soldier can still fire on enemy targets, analyze positions and stay under cover, not to mention receive valuable intel. Lt. Colonel Mitchell himself first tested it in Afghanistan during an undercover rescue when he was still a captain. He argued everyone should get it, not just the leader. And it was Mitchell who could be thanked that Nomad's team was able to get many of their hi-tech toys for this op. For all the talk that tech was just a means and groups didn't need such tools to do damage, everyone was still on the train of getting faster, more streamlined and sophisticated equipment. 2.5 was supposed to be faster, sharper, more efficient a sort of step up. Along with their other gear, this would be a good test for the latest update.
Didn't hurt it was the one thing Red didn't mind using.
"GOOD LUCK DOWN THERE!" The loadmaster shouted as the wind and engine sounds blared into the aircraft. Moments passed, and the lights turned green. In twos the Ghosts ran and jumped into the night sky. The plan was to land in the mountain area of Itacua. It was a fertile region nestled with in Chiquisaca Department with a temperate climate and a moderate relief with a river bordering it. Fertile lands meant agriculture, and agriculture meant farmers. Farmers often making the most effective rebels simply from their rugged upbringing, yet always the most neglected and abused people. As the Ghosts learned from the Kingslayer files it was spared attention from the cartel as they were busy fighting Unidad. It was here that Bolivian cocaleros and other persecuted people began forming Katari's Hand. And they were still going strong as the place has become a guerrilla zone.
As the ground started coming closer, the Ghosts pulled their parachutes. Some streetlights and ancient-looking markers of rocks standing nearby their drop zone. There was a small stone and thatch house. Outside of said house were vehicles. Two old vans and the other a 4x4 vehicle with a gunner mount. A group of men stood there. Cold War era olive garb for all. Four of them wearing bandanas around their faces. Rugged and fit builds. Some wearing old helmets, and one even had a worn red beret. Simple tactical vests from the 80s, 90s or so with ALICE rigs. Kataris 26. The fifth man had a boonie hat with loose wrappings around his neck. The way he carried himself there and then, Nomad wagered this was Pac Katari. The men with him had to be bodyguards or experienced Those close to the bossman were just as likely to get better toys as those who proved themselves. Not mutually exclusive of course.
The other group had none other than Bowman herself looking more in the field, with her were four others sharing her appearance with chest rigs and weapons. Those had to be the CIA SOG types. Once boots hit the ground, parachutes were discarded and the men coalesced coming forward. Getting closer, Nomad got a better look at the group. Their weapons appeared to be G36C rifles as opposed to the AK as many would expect. Aside from a few paint scratches and a wrap here or there, they looked well-kept and maintained. Either the rebels are better off than Bowman said, or these were looted. These men in particular, surely either bodyguards or the finest the rebels have to offer. Perhaps both. The man had a Bolivian flag on his left shoulder. His face was mostly shadowed from the light, what little of it seen was fairly chiseled. It wasn't until Nomad was right with him next to Bowman he got a look at his face. So far Nomad could tell Pac was not a simple man and was willing to fully wager he was a real fighter. His eyes said it all. One of the CIA guys had the classic aviator sunglass you'd expect an agency man to wear in the movies. He was a much older fellow. Late 50s maybe?
"Eight soldiers..." Pac spoke, his voice was soft but firm, his English mildly accented by his Bolivian origins, "this is the help you promised? That Sandoval promised?" The agitation in his voice was evident. "You start watching Santa Blanca, you bring your own specialists, weapon experts and informants to fight the cartel. But then a single Yankee dies, and you send a handful of soldiers. Hundreds of Bolivians have died from Santa Blanca's bullets! Where will my hundreds of soldiers come from?!" Pac Katari expected more out of this agreement he had, especially with what was clearly already sent. Not that he could be blamed if it was as bad as things were said to be.
Karen's response was curt and simple. "As Americans we aren't here, remember? These soldiers are the best covert ops team our country has to offer. With their help, you won't need hundreds of soldiers."
"Are you familiar with the word 'hubris,' señora Bowman?" Pragmatic or simply annoyed? Theoretically four men can do a lot of damage... theoretically. When put to the test they may very well fail. The proof is in the pudding, but you don't see it until you eat it. A chuckle from Wolf was heard, clearly in not-so-subtle agreement with the man.
"I like him already." He said.
"Meet Pac Katari, second-in-command of Katari's Hand." Bowman began saying to Nomad, Pac simply was at his own devices, talking into a radio that had sparked to life in his own tongue. Nomad only got bits, not enough to formulate an opinion. "we've been working with the rebels to destabilize Santa Blanca's organization. They've been fighting Santa Blanca and corrupt Bolivian officials for nearly 6 years now. We'll need to coordinate targets." 6 years. That's a lot of time to be fighting. That brought some expectations in Nomad's mind. Perhaps some of these rebels were competent from the experience. If that was the case, the. Any help that could be given would be worthwhile.
"There's no time for this," Katari interrupted, getting off the radio, "we have information on Amaru's whereabouts!" Bowman's eyes went wide hearing this.
"Amaru, you found him? Amaru's one of the founders of the group."
"More than that our group is founded on his ideals. Without his theories on an agrarian proletariat there will be no organized resistance against Santa Blanca and the corruption in our government. Amaru must be saved." There it is, the communist rhetoric. Not even a day in Bolivia and it's already beginning. "If you were to assist my people, it would do much to earn my confidence."
"Where is he?" Bowman asked.
"We do not know exactly. I was just told is in this province and that there is a Santa Blanca lieutenant that knows where he is."
Bowman nodded. "I'll put a call in to the Activity, see if they can dig more intel out of the airwaves. Start looking for that lieutenant and keep me informed via sat phone. Once you get ahold of him, regroup with us and I'll introduce you to the rest of the boys." She said to Nomad before heading for the house.
"Saving Amaru is important to our cause, Yanquis. Make sure you don't kill the Santa Blanca lieutenant before you get to ask him questions. Two of my men will take you to the outpost he was last seen. Consider this one of your safe houses." As the two departed for the house, the Ghosts were left to their own devices.
"Not even a siesta after that long flight? Maaaaaaan, I got aches in my legs from sitting in that chopper." Holt whined as the two rebels made for the other van.
"Now to get in touch with the man upstairs." Nomad's CROSS-COM was connected with the satellite, and in addition to his sat phone, was now in touch with home base back in Fort Bradley. "Griffin, this is Bravo Actual. Do you copy?"
A moment passed, before the voice of Mitchell came through. "Reading you five-by-five, Bravo Actual. CROSS-COMs are active and we have full connection. How'd the ride go?"
"Uneventful. We've become acquainted with our resident spook and just met the local rebel leader, Pac Katari. We're on our way to find his friend Amaru, get the rebellion back on its feet. After that we'll get in touch with the agency forces here."
"Understood, Nomad. Just remember, this may be a joint op, but there's a lot of moving pieces. The more pieces there are the more likely it's going to bite us in the ass. Move fast, shoot straight and don't do any more than you have to. Don't get caught up in the local issues. Keep your tech close and your weapons closer. And keep an eye on Bowman." Nomad knew those rules all too well. "Keep me updated on your progress. I want to know everything that goes on in Bolivia as much as Bowman does."
"Understood Griffin. Bravo Actual out." Radio call finished, the teams embarked onto the van. It had to have been a tourist van or used for a similar role at that point because there were enough seats for all of them.
"We will drive through Tacua to get you where you need to go. You'll get your siesta after all, Yanqui." One of the rebels joked.
"Ah thank GOD."
"You sat on your ass in that cargo plane for hours." Gaucha shot at him.
"Sitting on my ass in a ground vehicle is much more soothing... less turbulence." And that's when it started raining.
Durango, Mexico
"You are hosting some political contacts at the casino next month. I want an event, Carzita. Politicians are natural beggars of glamour. The casino must be gilded with celebrity. Who can you bring in?"
As is with any organization that grows, you can't do everything on your own. Yet you must be involved lest some get too ambitious or succumb to laziness. Never mind reminding those beneath you and their own subordinates who's in charge. It was that way from the Italian Mafia to Mexican Cartels. From the distant past to modern times.
El Sueño however had some leeway here. When the civil war in Mexico turned in the favor of the loyalists, he was among the few who saw the writing on the wall and made for greener pastures. What other cartels saw as free real estate, he saw as a waste. So he left to pursue his dream. A land where his people could grow their own coca, produce their own cocaine. Run their business free from interference from the police, the government, the army, the Yanquis. And what better pastures than Bolivia? Where the cash crop was bountiful and they could even cut out the middleman. It wasn't easy of course. Even when a foothold was made, when sicarios flocked to his banner, when the powers that be back home forgot about them, it was still a trial to get Santa Blanca back on the map. The sort of trial that made or broke people. Santa Blanca was made. A combination of new talent joining the ranks, rivalry amongst local cartels and bribed officials ensured his organization's rise to power.
Santa Blanca bought the coca fields, what couldn't be bought they took. They bought the police, the military, the judges, the politicians. As of this moment they were becoming the government itself. A narco state.
But of course even when one finally reaches the top of the pyramid, they must keep an eye on those below them, mending the little things that needed to be tended to. One of such activities was getting more people connected to you. Movie starlets, politicians, government agents, military men.
"I have a few ideas. There is Marco Cruz..." Carzita said on the phone.
Sueño interrupted him, "That fat actor? He wants to be a politician himself. You are thinking that you will buy celebrities. But you must attract them." Sueño's words were soft but they had that inflection he often had to use when speaking to the likes of Carzita. 'Get your head out of the clouds and think!' Never mind the fact that his father, Gonzalo Coronel Vallardo, was a telecom billionaire, if he wasn't so good at hosting parties for anyone who's anyone to get connected... well there are worse things to happen to people, even in the cartels.
Carzita's voice on the phone however indicated he understood the point being made. "Yes, yes. Of course. Uh, Bebé Harrera. She's a Colombiana telenovela star."
Sueño's eyebrow arched. "Star of 'The Face of the Skater.' I am familiar with this novela. She is very beautiful. You know her?"
"She is a poker player. If we host a small tournament, perhaps she can bring a few of her actor and musician friends."
Carzita was back on track now. "Good. Make it happen. She and her friends do not need to personally 'entertain' any of my contacts. Understood?"
"Yes. Absolutely, jefe."
"And Carzita."
"Yes, jefe?"
"See to it when you persuade people to attend your parties it doesn't impact our production. We trouble Señor Jorge enough with our insurance policy. Drawing the attention of the news to him will have an undesirable effect on our production. You get more followers with honey than vinegar." Sueño was alluding to Via-B's refinery chief being 'persuaded' by Carzita to attend another event at the resort. It was their primary lifeline to the chemical precursors needed to make cocaine.
Carzita was silent before speaking. "Jefe, I only-"
"Silence. No more Via-B guests unless I require it." Sueño ended the call. The playboy was an accident waiting to happen... his saving grace being how good he was at managing the resort in Agua Verde while making connections. Never mind his father's own power. Such connections enabled Sueño to have the hacienda he had here be built without interference from the government. As far as the wider world was concerned, this was just another home of the telecom billionaire. Said hacienda also made it easier for him to get in touch with investors and partners here in Mexico. Be they other cartels who survived the civil war or other less scrupulous individuals. And right now, discretion and awareness was very important.
The phone rang. This time was a man by the name of José Cortez. "Hola." Sueño responded.
"Mother of God, Sueño! What the hell is going on down there?!" The man was panicked and irritable.
"What do you mean?"
"Bolivia! One moment things are okay and the next the news going on about an embassy bombing. I was barely able to get away to a private place to make this call! The president is proposing a meeting to investigate domestic cartels for possible links to Santa Blanca, and that will inevitably link to politicians! As in politicians trying to make YOUR job easier as you agreed! The mess it made threatens years of work to keep us out of the spotlight!"
"Seńor Cortez, I assure you that whatever is going on, it was not Santa Blanca that was behind this attack. I do not lie, you know this." Sueño responded.
"It matters little. Events are in motion, and it may be too late to course correct. You've had that threat hanging over us for reneging a deal for a very good while, but I will be very clear. I will not let my legacy be tarnished by association with you. So please for all that is sacred find out who is responsible!" The call was ended at Cortez's end. Sueño had no qualms about his behavior. Another politician lashing out for his own choices as one would sum it up. Sueño didn't coerce Cortez or his associates, they came to him seeing the opportunity in Santa Blanca's rise. Incidentally becoming tied through the parties Carzita threw.
Cortez was right about one thing though, a response from the Americans was inevitable. Sueño was no fool. Never mind their willingness to have some kind of response prepared when something happened, the Vegas attacks were still fresh in the minds of many. All it took was a bunch of ideological fools to ruin a good thing. It was one of the factors that led to the signing of NAJSA. Something he and other cartels knew would impact them one way or another. Yet for all the money and fighters they provided they could not stop the American tide... not that the mercenaries trying to fire nukes on the nation helped matters. It hadn't been long after the embassy bombing and Ricky's death... so Sueño had eyes and ears listening for anything of value. They had to... they're on the razor's edge of becoming a truly established narco state.
Speaking of the American, it was almost a shame that he had to go. El Sueño had his suspicions, and they were confirmed when the failed rebel ambush happened. Even so, Ricky proved an effective buchon. He played his role so well it even fooled him for a while. A true irony that undercover agents can help the very force they are meant to destroy. But that also posed the question: Who else was really loyal, and who was a rat?
For the time being though, he could have some assurances things were going well despite a few hiccups. As of this moment, the vast majority of Bolivia's coca fields had his sicarios watching over them, be it through coercion or bribery. He had the laboratories and workers who could distill and add to the concoction to turn it into the powder so many crave. To the point he literally branded his product. He had those who recruited and managed the public image through religion, education, the bribed politicians and even a humanitarian NGO. It was laughably easy with how quick to discredit one's own government some people were. Be they legitimate grievances or the more idealistic type who were fonder of waggling their tongues than anything else. Or even on the other side of the spectrum where the idealistic types destroy and shoot simply because they feel their government is the devil himself.
That being said, he was hardly the first to ever do evil for a greater good... history was full of these individuals. Al Capone was one such example for his creation of soup kitchens to feed the poor. To point fingers at the Americans was a true point, but one so easily made it wasn't even fair. Be it religious sermons or music, people danced to his tune thanks to the work of El Cardenal. Thanks to the work of a favored buchon, Nidia Flores, Santa Blanca found ways to circumnavigate NAJSA's inspections and regulations. It was a costly effort, but one that rewarded them greatly. That said, the markets in Europe, Asia and Africa were more then open to the cartel, not to mention far more lucrative with how much further they are. Except Australia, fuck that place. Everything there made the fucking jaguars in the Amazon look safe. Should the need ever arise they bore many places to stash cocaine for later sale. Air, land, and sea were theirs. Should bribes and circumnavigation fail? He had his childhood friend, El Muro, and his subordinates to deal with problems. Be it Kataris 26, Unidad, or some other element like the many mercenaries, desperados, and government agents like Ricky Sandoval who came to interfere. It was always preferred to inflict horrible pain upon one's enemies to deliver a message. But sometimes it was better to put a bullet in their head and call it a day. Either method was possible with the outposts, camps and checkpoints the cartel owned. Never mind El Muro ensured these sicarios were well trained. Those who didn't make the cut either got killed or became lookouts. It all allowed them to make up to two billion dollars a week.
That being said, Sueño noticed that some of the applicants for the training regimen to become elite soldados never appeared again. Not that they were disqualified but that they just vanished. Likely some of them were silenced... but even then there were uses for men who didn't pass the elite trials. They would still make fine halcones, drivers, fucking door guards. Hell, they were a mix of new blood along with sicarios wanting to go to the next level. He would have to speak to El Muro about this. The trend began ever since El Muro picked up that American back in 2016. Bookhart. Hell, he set the man up as the premier trainer for the security forces. The saving grace in this being the results of the training. hand-to-hand combat, first aid, basic infantry training, basic and advanced firearms training. 84 sicarios from a class of two hundred accumulated four hundred and thirty-one bodies. Police, soldiers, HVTs, not just random bystanders. Only eight had been killed, two by their own to prevent capture. And more importantly they completed their tasks.
It was an impressive streak. That could not be denied. What troubled Sueno was the other one hundred and sixteen men. He knew of about 40 or so of them who returned. Where were the other 76? Did they return to their previous tasking or get relocated? The suspicion began with this report from Bookhart... along with the fact one of his favorite drivers applied for this elite training last month and no news came back about his fate. He was going to get these answers.
The phone rang again, speak of the Devil it was El Muro himself. "Yes, hermano?"
"El Sueño, the sicarios have found the escaped prisoner in the village of Culta." The prisoner who managed to get away from La Yuri and El Polito, a task practically unheard of. But if anything, Sueño learned that rebels were an unpredictable and creative bunch.
"What a wonderful name for a town. They were protecting him?"
"Si. The village is known to Unidad as a haven for rebels." And yet they do nothing. It is no coincidence that the province has little Unidad presence, something Sueño had yet to see rectified.
"Why do these rebels even bother? Kill them all. The whole village. Visit divine wrath upon Culta, and wipe it off the face of the earth."
"Sure. I'll gather some men."
Itacua, Bolivia.
Tight but not cramped. That's how the ride to the outpost was for the Ghosts in the back. Most of the ride was spent in silence save some banter. A good 45 minutes or so had passed and the sun had risen.
"Perdón, Yanqui? Nomad, was it?" The driver, who introduced himself as Emilio.
"That's right."
"We're about to pass through a town. Place called Tacua. Just after that is our destination."
Sure enough a town was making way into sight. Mostly simple buildings of brick and stone accompanied by more industrial purpose-built structures in the mix. "We're going directly through there? What about us? We don't exactly blend in."
Ricardo chuckled. "To the people, you're just another bunch of gunmen. There's little difference between Santa Blanca, Unidad and us rebels nowadays as far as how the people treat us. All equally suspicious. Not to mention throughout the years there's been many curious characters in and about Bolivia... hey Ramon, remember those four other guys who came along?"
"Sí, sí. Una verdadera manada de inadaptados eran." He commented. Nomad's Spanish was rusty, but he recognized him calling them misfits.
"We're not the only foreign fighters in Bolivia I take it?" Midas asked.
"Besides the Cartel? No. These four were something else. Younger people but they weren't stupid. One was a woman dressed with a shirt and a sniper rifle with the goddamn Union Jack! Seemed more like your typical youth with how she behaves. The other looked like a damn hippie with a FAMAS covered in a flower pattern and wearing denim clothes. Something about how 'Buddha had to kick a little ass sometimes' as he put it. The third was a cowboy with a repeating rifle and an old revolver. And the last guy was from Peru, all dressed up like some modern Inca wannabe!" He replied with exaggeration.
"You're joking." Was a disbelieving Nomad's reply.
"I'm not. They've been here for months... but haven't seen them in a while. They may be dead."
"I hope not. They are good people. Santos de la violencia y la justicia. Despite how little of an impact they made and how ridiculous they are, they helped us. They gave some of us hope as the cartel whittled our rebellion down." Emilio said... a tone of pained sadness in his voice.
"When did you last see them?" Weaver asked.
Emilio shook his head. "Last we heard they were heading to Koani down in the Potosi Department, where the Salar de Uyuni is. Don't know what for." The famous massive salt flat that turns into the world's largest mirror when the rain falls. Their conversation didn't continue as something caught their eye. Along the streetlights leading into the town were people on their knees weeping with others consoling them. The rain just added to the messed up atmosphere. Said streetlights were currently the spot that bodies had been hung from. A few less fortunate ones were tied to poles alongside these lights. Their chests bare and mutilated with slashes from machete all over, blood seeping down their bodies. Among them were armed men. Nomad got a good look at them as they passed by. 11 men in total. 6 of them looked like they belonged in a street gang rather than a cartel. Wearing white shirts of varying types with tattoos on their arms, sneakers and some had kneepads. Armed with Skorpions and PP19s. Bunch of hoodlums if anything and were clearly enjoying the spectacle they left for the people. 4 of them looked tougher. More capable. Headwraps, ALICE webbings and AK-12s. It wasn't surprising to see these weapons outside of Russia. But that didn't make it any better. Likely a few growing pains. The real surprise was seeing these weapons with a white pattern on them. It looked like a white Kryptek pattern. They went as far as to mark their weapons with their color... in fact, the PP19s and Skorpions had the patterns too.
The final man wore a black suit with zebra pattern strips and a dark teal undershirt with cowboy styled boots and a matching hat. Tatoos on the exposed bit of his chest and a cheek. He was addressing the gathered people with a clearly angry face. It was an example, a reprisal killing no doubt. "Don't fuck with us," as they say. The gruesome spectacle passed them by as quickly as it came.
"More of them... retaliating for our last attack no doubt." Ramon grimaced.
"And the authorities are nowhere in sight... as usual." Emilio muttered.
"They are virtually nonexistent out here." Ramon added.
"Is this a daily occurrence?" Nomad asked watching the gruesome spectacle pass them by.
A sigh escaped Emilio's lips. "Depends. Sometimes the sicarios leave us alone. Other times they pick fights with locals. Usually when their veterans as we call them aren't around to hold their leash."
"Hah!" Ramon laughed. "The thing is the sicarios we see around Itacua, like these guys? Many of them are bottom of the barrel if you will. New faces, fresh meat. It's no wonder they have yet to get rid of us."
"Fresh meat? You mean their raw recruits?" Weaver asked.
"Si. There are a few general guidelines to remember when talking about Santa Blanca sicarios. One, they always, always, wear white. Their getup is varied but there will be white on their person somewhere. Some wear those stupid sports shirts with a number or name on them, hell some even go shirtless! Show off their tattoos proudly! But there's always white on them. The same goes for their vehicles. Trucks, cars, helicopters. White like the junk they produce. The only exception is their lieutenants, they dress like fucking vaqueros like the man you saw a moment ago. Two, while they usually wear whatever they feel like, there are clear distinctions between them. The veterans as we mentioned, they can always be identified among these guys by their body armor and the way they carry themselves. There are riflemen armed with some sort of rifle or other similar weapon. There are the gunmen armed with submachine guns like Scorpions or those tiny Uzis for drive-bys, some using 2 of them."
"Hold on you mean to tell me these guys go akimbo? Shit, that's some Oath of Service stuff right there." Holt joked.
Ramon laughed. "Hah, those games aren't so good these days. Anyway, there are also snipers and heavies. You can guess the gear they carry around. Third, yes, the guys here are yes basic and new recruits. It's their elite sicarios you want to watch out for."
"So these guys have specialists of their own then?" Weaver more matter-of-factually said than asked.
"Si, real nasty cabrons. They all have body armor, and those vehicles of theirs aren't no narco tank trucks like you have in Mexico. These are purpose-built things. Like the Hummer, along with trucks, fancy cars, the works."
Holt gave a sneer. "Maybe we should look into Toyota while we're at it. God knows those pricks will sell trucks to any group with a gun to make a quick buck. Bet you got some of their wares too."
"Qué?" Ramon seemed lost on Holt's joke.
"Why are these guys here and not their higher end sicarios? Is the situation that bad for you?" Weaver asked.
"Well we've certainly seen better days. When they're not hunting us rebels down, they're off dealing with other targets or providing protection for precious cargo or very important people. They eventually got better as time passed, but Itacua is a harder nut to crack. That said, Pac Katari has done well as far as keeping our people motivated and cohesive. But he's not so good at making sure we have everything we need. Amaru has been better at that. He's easier to work with too." Ricardo said. The van now was in the town proper and made way through. It seemed most people were out at the executions as it was hardly as busy as Nomad expected. A few sicarios looking around but nothing to make note of.
"Basically, the new blood of the cartel is being sent down here to deal with you to get actual experience. Sounds like something La Plaga would do." Wolf grunted. "Then again it's pretty smart. Get the new blood experience and save the old blood for emergencies."
"You know of him, eh?" Ramon asked.
"Yeah, nasty piece of shit and little brother to El Muro. Very active on social media, head sicario for the cartel. El Muro, the wall, is personal bodyguard and friend of Sueño. They make up the security arm of Santa Blanca. All there in the briefing we got. Never mind La Plaga's probably too busy posting shit online to actually do things himself... then again who knows." Holt said.
Ramon growled. "He is no man I assure you. He is an animal. He skinned a man's face off then returned to his village to show it to the people... then uploaded it to the internet. Un animal completo."
"Yeah. We heard." Gaucho answered.
"So he makes occasional visits down here to get some actual practice against what he considers 'vermin.'" Midas commented.
"Si." Emilio replied, "many times he has come here to take care of those considered too dangerous for the Cartel to spare. It is such all across their territory, but he makes special cases as this is Itacua. It is not just a place of farmers and simple life. It is where our rebellion began. It is from here we first fought the Cartel whilst their backs were turned fighting Unidad and the policia. But that eventually stopped when they came to their agreement. Now we can only hope to eventually turn things around."
"And we will!" Ramon declared. "I'll be damned if our revolution ends in a whimper. The people count on us, we're all they have left!" Nomad wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying, he was more concerned with keeping an eye out now that they were in an urban area with how empty it was. A force of habit from the Sandbox. No obvious threats, but he wasn't taking any chances. For all he knew somehow someway someone got to the Cartel and told them what was what, and they'd get hit. That didn't last long though. They reached the other side of the town and continued on. Eventually slowing down at the top of a steep small mountain.
Emilio turned to them as the van stopped. "Here's your stop, Yanquis. Once you find the lieutenant and get what he knows, contact us so we can follow up on it. That way we can coordinate a rescue attempt."
"You're not coming with?" Holt asked.
"We have other things to attend to. We must get back to Pac Katari. One of our commanders, Mariana, will be on standby for when you find Amaru's location. Good hunting, Yanqui." Emilio said. Nomad gave a nod in response before disembarking with his team. Brief farewells were given before Holt deployed his drone. The drones had come a long way since 2014. This particular gadget being as big as a human hand. It unfolded into three 'arms' with propellers for flight. And they had several just in case. Especially Tech.
Each CROSS-COM could connect to the camera so they could see what it saw. Going up, their tri-rotor saw a single man sitting at the top of some stairs along the path they had to take. He wore a white tank top with a sports styled 3 on the back, some shorts and a pair of sneakers. If it wasn't for the MAC-10 in his hand or the tattoos all over his arms, Nomad could've passed him for a civilian. The guy was definitely a low-level thug. Panning over to a building were two more in similar attire, one sitting on a few crates watching the other who was shirtless playing with a soccer ball with a chest full of tattoos. Words like 'Santa Muerte' all over. Up further ahead we're two more buildings, a large tent, and a purpose build lookout made from brick and mortar. Sure enough there was a man in there with a sniper rifle. Looked like an M40A5. So they knew how to make fortifications. Did it go further from here? This bunker was built on a cliff overlooking a small encampment where four more men were mingling around with a pair of Landrock 4x4s. A set of stairs winding around this now evident tower leading down there. It was all built into the large hill, and the roads led around and wound up it. These men weren't expecting to be hit... ironic considering they were in the Rebels' home turf.
In the midst of these men, up on the higher part of the camp, was one man in more formal attire. Had fancy looking cowboy boots with a fancy getup to match. That had to be him. 9 diamonds in total forming on their HUDs. "Target spotted. 5 men between us and him. 4 more down there. Move quick and we can nail him without having 9 guys fighting us."
"Only 9 men? Seems too easy given the province's reputation. Fresh meat or no." Weaver noted.
Holt answered with, "All the more reason to get in and get the info."
"You hit these clowns. We'll go down and hit the fellas below." Wolf responded as he and his own men went off.
Keeping the drone flying, Nomad leaned from the small shack he took cover behind and aimed for the man. One pull of the trigger was all it took. Given how he was looking on his phone, he slumped over and went down a couple of the stairs before stopping. Nomad motioned forward for the next two targets. One single bullet in the next man causing him to slump, then the man playing with his soccer ball. Holt had a chance and shot the man carrying boxes. All that was left was the lieutenant and the sniper.
"Deal with that sniper, I got the big man." Said man was walking into the tent and grabbing his phone. The moment he put it to his ear he started practically screaming. What he was pissed about became more discernible as Nomad got closer. He was giving whoever was on the other side of the phone an earful about an execution. Had to be the one they saw on their way here. That's why this place seemed so understaffed. The man was anxious, complaining about how his friend needed to get back before the rebels tried something. 'If they get their hands on me things are going to get really bad!' Probably a lot of talk, probably not. But Nomad waited before apprehending him. He didn't want to interrupt the call and give the fellas on the other side a reason to come back to investigate or worse. The caller could be calling from where Amaru is for all he knew!
The diamond for the sniper flickered out, Holt's own blue diamond having gone to it and taken him out. Now this guy was all alone. The moment he hit the hang up icon and put his phone away, Nomad shoved him to the ground. With a yelp the lieutenant fell on the tent's tarp hard, and before he could get up, Nomad knelt down quickly, knee on the lieutenant's back and pressed hard, grabbing his hair and turning his head.
It was time to get scary.
The man let out a pained cry but stopped the moment he saw the woodland clad man with a ghastly cloth mouth and glowing blue eye staring down at him.
"Here's the deal asshole: You answer my questions, or I leave a bullet in your gut and leave you to die in a pile of your own shit. Lo entiendes?" Nomad asked with a calm firmness, belying his harsh takedown. His M1911 right in the man's face, silencer included.
"Chill the fuck out, cabron? What do you want?" The man's voice was quivering, the intimidation was working no doubt.
"Amaru. Where can I find him?" His face then seemed to change into thought... then he started laughing, a nervous but evident laugh. One that eventually got more confident.
"You serious? That's what this is about? Sure thing! He's at Atollo Farm! Go on! Then you can see what we do to people who fuck with us! People like you!" Nomad, having got his answer, whipped the lieutenant's head to keep him out cold. Seems he didn't think it was a big deal and they'd get slaughtered. Time to prove him wrong.
"We need to get this done in a hurry. Amaru's an old man, he's not gonna last long under torture." Nomad declared.
"Shit. If they've been working on him for a while there's a chance he's already dead." Weaver responded, showing that pessimism he was known for exercising.
"Jeez, bring our spirits down, why don't you?" Holt sarcastically replied.
Midas interjected. "Maybe, maybe not. Amaru's a major player in the rebel movement. The Cartel will wanna keep him alive for as long as they can to find out what he knows." And that made far more sense than Weaver's prediction. It was basically the equivalent of capturing someone like Osama bin Laden during the War on Terror. Why just kill him when you can get a wealth of information? That said they were just as likely to know nothing or remain tight-lipped.
"We can't assume anything and we can't take any chances. There's too much riding on this." Nomad stated. "Let's move. The Cartel isn't gonna wait for us to rescue Amaru. Wolf, how you looking?"
"We were done before you got the info. I'll tell you, this stuff makes it so much easier." Was the reply.
Taking down multiple targets at once was nothing new. Doing so with technology to show who's aiming where was though. Weapon Augmented Reality, W.A.R, was a new component that took information from a Ghost's weapon and cross referenced it with other Ghosts and targets via the A.T.L.A.S. Those using it would see bright blue beams representing each other's aimed weapons pointing at their targets through their HUDs.
"Sync shots are the future, man." Holt replied.
"Sync shots?" Weaver asked, eyebrow arching.
"Yeah, figured I'd give it a name for faster communication. Think the Old Man will like it."
"Real cute." Tech sighed sarcastically.
"I got Atollo Farm on the GPS, it's a mile from here. Get to one of the Jeeps, I'm getting Mariana on the horn... Mariana, you there? This is Nomad. You there?
A moment passed before Nomad was given a response. "Si, Yanqui. What do you have for us?" It was a woman's voice.
"We got Amaru's location, he's at a place called Atolla Farm. I have its location right now and we're on our way."
"Atolla Farm? Mierda, right under our noses... the owners disappeared during one of the Cartel's sweeps and we never found them. I'll meet you there shortly with my men."
Nomad took shotgun in one of the 4x4s sitting at the outpost as Wolf's team took another. They took the road winding down from the mountain. They took it smoothly, lest they drive off the side of the road or hit one of the pedestrians walking along it. They were under no illusions that Santa Blanca didn't travel the roads themselves at all times. Even in a rebel land like this. The drone proved its value here with Nomad having it fly over them keeping an eye ahead for any roadblocks, checkpoints or other obstacles the Cartel presented itself at.
Midas turned on the radio. "Hola plebes!" A high-pitched male voice came from the radio followed by a deep sniff. "I feel a change in the air! A shift in the wind! A new day dawning! DJ Perico here talking to you about the bright future of the Santa Blanca Cartel. I know we've only been in Bolivia for a few years, but-"
"What the hell is this shit?" Weaver rhetorically asked.
"Shit, I think that's one of our guys in the briefing. DJ Perico. Runs Santa Blanca's pirate radio." Holt responded. Midas turned the channel, only for Perico's voice to continue coming through, then again, then again. "Looks like that's all the radio has."
"Ooooof course... let it play, maybe we'll hear something important." Nomad said with an exasperated sigh.
"-was just mud and muck. Till WE stepped off the plane and set up shop! Órale, we kick ass, homies! And that's the thing! When you come this far, when your life is this good. How do you aim higher? Dream bigger? Cuz you better! Cuz if you don't, the only place left to go is down! Like, right now? Santa Blanca is a heavyweight champion of the world. So what do you aim for after you get that? More money? Conquer another sport? If you don't know, all you've got left to do is lose. Once you've won the game, how do you keep winning? Let me school you, wey. You make the game itself bigger, motherfucker! You make the game huge! And THAT's what Santa Blanca's gonna do! Just watch!"
"I hate this guy already." Weaver said.
"Me too." Midas answered.
"If anything, he's still the news... we'd do well to listen in on his broadcasts so we know what kind of damage we're doing, let alone get a the lay of the land." Holt responded. Thankfully, the drive was uneventful. How long this uneventful streak would last was already in question. The Ghosts pulled off the road and into the patch of woods to conceal their presence. Atolla Farm was about 200 meters away from them past a field of corn and potatoes. It was a small run-down household surrounded by a small sea of crops. Mostly the mentioned corn. Nomad got ahold of Mariana, she was on the other side to the farm's east with a sizable number of men. Aside from radio confirmation of having each other in their sights, Nomad would have the benefit of green diamonds signifying their locations once found. Before finding them with the drone, he took stock of the small farm. There was a small single-story house a short walk away from a larger barn. Around which were a number of sicarios mingling. About 30. A single veteran and a bunch of gunmen.
Mariana was eventually spotted in a cornfield. She was in the usual garb but rather daring. A red beret and a shirt tied up beneath her... assets. Not much else covering her on top. Beyond that she appeared to be your expected guerrilla. With her were at least 12 other rebels. These men were armed with a menagerie of AK's and FALs. Both weapons were plentiful in South America thanks to the Cold War. The men and women with her matched her clothing. The olive green, military boots and berets with face paint of dark yellow and black rings with light brown... almost like a jaguar. The red diamonds forming shortly after drone contact was established, then shifting to green to signify friendlies. Thank the lord for AI and software. Looks like 2.5's features were working. Ghosts didn't have to make verbal commands to their systems no more to change the status of designated targets. Finally came locating Amaru, yellow forming over him to signify the objective. Sure enough he was in the barn, behind a caged door in a small room. He didn't look anything like the leader of a guerrilla army. He looked more like a man entering his older years you could expect to be a kindly farmer. Of course, that's how most fighters start. Let alone farmers weren't exactly soft folk. The bloody shirt and his baggy eyes signified he was definitely put through the wringer by the Cartel. With that in mind, the plan was put into motion. Crossfire would do the job, but it would need to be carefully done.
"Try to find whoever has a radio, they're priority targets. The moment we hit them, they're sure to call for help. We also can't wait for night in case someone comes along to pick up Amaru, let alone execute him then and there. We'll take down four of them to start, then we can hit the rest." Nomad said over the radio.
"You worry too much Yanqui. My people are much better than the usual fighters you'd find in our rebellion. They are jaguars and they want fresh meat." This woman was confident, that much was certain.
"So the face paint ain't just for show." Holt jested.
"Enough chit chat. We're picking our targets." The CROSS-COM showed the blue beams once more. These men would be noticed the moment they went down, but that would work in their favor with the rebels on three other side. The initial surprise would let Mariana and her people get in close considering they were chomping at the bit, the Ghosts would follow suit from behind and pick off the distracted sicarios. Eight silenced shots. Eight men falling to the ground, and a few sicarios crying out in surprise, aiming their Bizons and SMG-11s around. This confusion was broken by the crack of rifle fire from Mariana and her people as they rushed ahead, shouting battle cries with abandon. With their backs turned, the sicarios presented a much better target for the Ghosts.
"Sure they need our help? The rebels seem to be handling it really well." Midas said.
The question was given no answer as they went to work. The quiet hissing of suppressed shots completely hidden by the shots from the rebels and sicarios. That of course didn't stop said sicarios from noticing their numbers dwindling. This caused chaos for them as they alternated, facing a now unseen threat on one side and the encroaching rebels on the other. Their cocky and aggressive Spanish banter turning to concern and panic. When 5 more sicarios fell, Nomad and Holt took to moving further in and grabbing cover at old tightly packed stone walls. A few shots are being sent his way, shots met with either a round from Weaver or a burst from the rebels in the back. A couple of bursts took down two of the closest sicarios to Nomad whilst Holt went towards the right side of the barn. 9 sicarios left. Their attention was focused on the rebels at the moment. The diamonds went down to 6 closer to the rebels. Then 4, and then only 2 left. The sounds of gunfire were swiftly replaced by the shouts of the last sicarios surrendering. But what caught Nomad's attention were the sounds of warbled Spanish in the background.
It was a man on a radio one of the recently captured sicarios had dropped, and he was calling inform them that a quick reaction force was dispatched. The timetable just jumped, and Nomad ran into the barn, went right up to the door and shot the lock off with his pistol, allowing a shocked Amaru to be released. "You Amaru?" He asked.
"... what's left of him anyway." The man responded, exhausted and in pain.
"Come on. We're getting you out of here." Nomad told, taking up an arm over his shoulder as they left for outside.
"Amaru! You are alive!" Mariana had come seeing her leader was well, relief flooding her face. "Gracias, Yanqui. With him back, we have a chance to rebuild our efforts."
Amaru looked to Nomad, his face showing frustration. "Yanqui. Entonces. Pac Katari has made his deal with the malditos extranjeros. The young fool."
"Take it up with him, señor." Nomad responded. "We don't have a lot of time. That radio was buzzing just a moment ago and there's more sicarios on their way here."
The relief on Mariana's face turned to frustration. "Damn! Every sicario within 5 miles of this place is probably on their way here!" Her own radio started going off just then. Lookouts were spotting the sicarios on their way. Turned out those SB hitmen were way closer than they thought. They'd be on them within a couple of minutes.
"Señora Mariana, we need to get out of here while we can!" One of the rebels stated.
"No time! Get to cover and ambush them! You two, toss the prisoners into that cell!" No sooner did she say that the sound of kicked up dirt and roaring engines hit their ears. From the driveway leading to the barn came a force of about six vehicles. Including a large cargo truck and two armored pickup trucks with mounted PKP guns blazing. Mariana already let loose herself from the hip before ducking down with her people.
"Weaver, you got a shot?" Nomad's question was answered by a shot that went and slammed through the windshield of one of the pickups, causing the vehicle to swerve to the left and into a small ditch, inadvertently cause a crash with the one behind it. The force sending front truck over and sending the gunner flying with a scream. The rear truck now stuck in place as it also received a shot to the driver's seat. The remaining vehicles were further away and cut through the corn field to get close. .338 Norma Magnum was no joke.
"Flying sicarios! Who'd imagine?!" A rebel joked. His jests were cut off by more gun fire from the corn. Undoubtedly the sicarios hoping to keep the enemy heads down rather than score a lucky kill. The cargo truck kept thundering forward with the fire keeping up.
"Weaver, drone's up! Wait for the CROSS-COM to send you their positions!" Nomad's order was met with another shot the moment red diamonds appeared. Said diamonds going from 15 to 14. Another down to 13.
"I got the truck! Watch this!" Holt stormed across what cover there was for a straight shot. Then aimed, his CROSS-COM offering a predicted arc for his grenade to follow, then fired his launcher into the field. A moment later an explosion erupted in the field, not quite the dramatic explosion seen in movies, but it was enough to send flames from the ignited fuel around and leave a smoldering wreck.
Tech laughed. "Oh? Well check this out!" The drone he had watching things made a beeline for another car that had driven into the other side of the cornfield. Upon getting close to the vehicle, he activated its payload, detonating the drone and taking the vehicle with it. Another fire starting to spread.
"Dios mio! Now this whole place will burn to the ground! What a waste of food!" Mariana cried out.
"It'll get us a window to leave! We should get moving, Nomad!" Wolf shouted as sicarios fleeing the fire came forth.
"Agreed! Get Amaru, let's go!" Nomad replied. With Amaru now in his people's hands, the task of getting him home would be much easier. As they departed the sicarios were hindered by the spreading fire, their lack of sight and some of their still-living friends from the cargo truck running to and fro as human torches spreading the flames. These guys were quick to respond but were indeed rookies. Someone on their end was gonna answer for this, that's for sure!
The Ghosts took to their stolen Jeeps as the rebels made way for the jungle to whatever transportation they had. Nomad slipped into the driver's seat left as Midas and Weaver made for the rear. Holt to the passenger seat.
"Mariana, we got transport. How's Amaru?"
"We got him, he's hurt but alive. We're heading for Itacua Echo, one of our safe houses. You'll find it a good few miles southwest of Copani Village. You've done us a great service today, Yanqui. See you there."
"Understood. We'll be there." Driving back through the patch of woods and onto the road. "Keep alert. I don't expect them to know where we went but these guys are tenacious."
"Tenacious sure, but that was messy as shit." Holt commented, his tone slightly joking. "QRF was fast. Too fast."
"That said those fuckers were sloppy." Gaucho added. "They weren't exaggerating when they said it was greener sicarios. Sooner or later we're sure to run into the ex-military goons."
"Either way we got Amaru and can rest easy for a moment. So far not too bad." Tech commented.
"We better split up. We'll keep going ahead. Nomad, you head back towards the outpost we cleared out." Wolf recommended. It was a good plan. They'd surely draw attention as a group and use up the last bit of good fortune the Ghosts were having thus far.
"Bowman, you there? It's Nomad. We got Amaru, he's with Mariana and is on the way to Itacua Echo."
Bowman's voice was full of relief. "Good, last thing we need is to lose what little chance we have at getting the ball rolling again. Get here as soon as you can, I'll want you here when Amaru gives us what he knows."
"Understood on the way." Now that the spook was notified, Nomad shifted frequencies. "Griffin, it's Bravo Actual. We just extracted a rebel leader for Kataris 26 named Amaru. We're on the way to rendezvous with his people at a safe house."
"Understood Nomad. Just watch your back, I imagine the rebels are going to be given a second wind with him back home. It'll give the cartel a reason to up their game." Came Mitchell's reply.
"Understood, Nomad out." Moments after another convoy of sicarios drove by on the oncoming side of the road. There was far more in that load, 12 vehicles, 4 technicals and 8 others with men in the back, all souped up. Too fast to realize the very men responsible for the attack we're driving right by them! And without bullets flying the Ghosts got to see Mariana wasn't exaggerating about their rides. All of them heavy duty pickup trucks with bumpers, floodlights, and other bits and pieces. The armed ones had armor parts and mounted .50 cals and came in pure white colors.
"Those looked like Fords. F-150s. Guess we can rule out Toyota giving them stuff." Midas joked.
Holt started whining. "Aw maaaaan, guess this means we won't be hurting their stock a bit."
"Ahh don't worry about it. Last I checked Ford ain't what it used to be." Tech commented.
Culta Village.
Some things required a personal touch. Francisco Manguia decided this is one of those things.
El Muro, The Wall, has been to Itacua several times when Kataris 26 first rose up. Unlike other beckons, he knew this was going to be a problem. A bigger problem than La Unidad ever was. At least with Unidad you could coerce and threaten as they did. Rebels? They appeal to the ever-annoying tendency of human beings to strive for a better future. On the other hand, unlike the likes of the United States or other groups that deal with such things, Santa Blanca did not adhere to the useless niceties of the laws of war as he was about to prove here. The rain would hinder the fires they would light... but not if they started from within.
"Right up this road. Take two of the cars and make way to the cliffside overlooking the down. There should be a path giving a field of fire. The rest of us keep moving forward."
Culta is a small village seated upon a cliff side underneath another one. The only way besides the main entrance being a small path from the overhanging cliff. That would offer a good path for support and keep anyone from running. The only other way out being over the edge and praying for a miracle. It certainly wasn't the first time Muro put down a village. Every now and then back when he was in the army special forces back in Mexico, he would have to 'remove' undesirables so the drug lords could operate. Paid in cocaine and money along with promotions. That was until 2009 when El Sueño convinced him to join him in Santa Blanca, and he became the head of security.
That was a different time though. Back when he had a sizeable force, but had to rely on usual thugs along with the tried and tested sicarios he helped train. Now the organization had a real army for him to lead. Now if only his little brother would take his job seriously. All the interrogation training from death-squads in El Salvador and Honduras and combat training from old Spetsnaz members couldn't curb his ego. At least he was a good student.
Enough fucking reminiscing. It's time to go to work. And unlike back then, a good chunk of the men he had were real professional killers. They would keep the lessers among them in line as the destruction began. "Blockade the entrance. Anyone comes snooping, send them along, and if they don't listen, kill them." The rest of you, follow me."
The two cars who went around were part of a five car convoy. The remaining three pulling into three path of the village entrance and blocking it off. The only other way out being a small pass that couldn't even fit two people. The panic would cause whoever tried escaping there to either fall off or get picked off by the observing men "Once we get it, spread out and scour the village. No prisoners, no survivors, except the rebel. Well get him back to La Yuri and El Polito when we know the rebels aren't watching."
MPXs and G36Cs, 6P41s and Skorpions, all in white patterns to match the clothes they wore. Scarves, facemasks, caps and sunglasses, bandannas. Shirts, hoodies, tank tops, jeans and pants. All this contrasted the black body armor covering their bodies. And finally, Molotovs at the ready. He was told to burn the village. He would burn it. He would at least make it merciful, nothing like what others would do, especially his little brother. Back then in his special forces days, there was some trepidation from him and his fellows, particularly with civilians holed up in churches. Even with Santa Muerte at the forefront of many minds. But that was before. Now? He'd done it enough times it no longer bothered him. Besides, these weren't even his fellow Mejicanos he was shooting up. The only trouble with that is it helped fuel the rebellion's stamina and he knew it. That's why Amaru's capture was such good news.
"Jefe, we're in place."
"Do it."
The sounds of automatic fire ripped through the air. Then the screams. A gesture was made and his men began filing into the pass. Just pure carnage, none of the shit you usually expect from such a raid. This would be ensured with the fact the men were elite sicarios. The moment they had the village in sight, They let the lead hoses loose. First to suffer Santa Muerte's wrath were the villagers who were making for the exit. That being right towards them. Men? Women? Children? The Elderly? The Disabled? They all were valid targets. A dozen corpses later, the sicarios spread out, some going up the left, others going down the right, and some going with Muro through the middle. No lingering and butchering of their remains. None of that, it was just pure killing. Plain and simple.
"Burn everything but find the rebel!"
As the homes were cleared out, bottles were tossed onto the roofs, sparking the flames. Some of the locals tried fighting back if for no other reason than to hold off the cartel. But it was too little too late. They ended up as more carrion for the birds. The houses were running out. The only other hiding place being the small chapel here. If he wasn't there, he's either in the wind or dead. One or the other. El Muro kept focused on that. Barging in, there was a lone priest and a few villagers huddled inside.
"OUT!" The man shouted. "GET OUT OF HERE YOU ANIMALS!" He had huevos the size of the Grand Canyon, that much was certain. The people inside cowered behind him, as expected.
"Where's the rebel?" Silence. Muro signaled them to look around. There was only one little place besides this gathering space.
"You do this in a House of God? You are insane!" Muro held a hand up before one of the sicarios could 'punish' the man with a butt to the head.
"I only do what is expected of me, Padre. I do what is demanded of us from El Sueño and Santa Muerte." Was Muro's response.
"Do not utter that name. This is God's House. Not hers!"
"Give me the rebel, and I'll make it quick." Silence was the answer. He would kill the man, that was no problem. But he needed the information. Muro approached, the Padre didn't budge. But what Padre didn't know was he wasn't the target. Muro motioned to one of his men, and they grabbed one of the villagers. A young teenage girl. The expected outcry occurred as she was shoved to Muro. A vice grip in his arm ensured she wouldn't get away.
"DO NOT HARM HER!"
"I won't." Muro began. "My men however, not all of them are as... disciplined as the ones before you." As if to punctuate his point, a sequence of screams was heard outside from a woman. "I can either end it quickly or draw it out. It is your choice, Padre." And by God he hoped the man would choose quickly. This girl's cries were already annoying him.
"Don't do it! Please!" One of the villagers cried out. And here was the torrent of wails from the lesser folk. Idiots, they forget the world they live in, they forget who was in charge now. This is the Wild.
"Where's the rebel?" The question hit deaf ears... or rather ears filled with the pandemonium of the few villagers. Goddamn pain. Perhaps they needed reminding of what was going on.
"Muro, Senor, we found the rebel!" The earpiece exploded. The moment he heard those words, he let the girl go and went outside, ordering his men to watch the people in the church. By now the entire rest of the village was on fire, two of his men were shoving a tied-up man towards him. Yes. He was a rebel, that stupid chullo was a dead giveaway. Guy was young, but he bore the marks of Yuri and Polito's work. "He was hiding in a cellar. Nearly missed him. These rebels are fond of their damn floor hatches. We also found a load of weapons down there." A hidden cache. They hid their shit here. The village didn't just hide him as a spur of the moment decision. That made the process to continue the task much easier.
"A generous donation from your people, my friend. Get those supplies out of that basement and we'll toss our friend in. Can keep him there until it's time to move him. Think it'll be a proper lesson to keep him among the ashes of the village he had shelter him."
"NO!" He shouted. "They suffered enough already! Leave them out of-"
"Save your rhetoric." Muro interrupted. "Did you expect us to not find you eventually? You damned these people the moment you decided to hide your weapons here... no... they damned themselves. You just spurred us to finish the job. Let this be a lesson to those who help you rebels."
His men dragged the man off to the home they found him in. Trusting his men to get rid of the rest of the village, he followed to see for himself. The house was a single-story home. A dining space with a couple of small rooms for beds. In the corner of said dining space was an open hatch. Looking inside El Muro found quite a collection. There was the usual collection of AKs and a few FALS. What surprised him was the number of older weapons here. M1 carbines, some Thompson and PPsH submachineguns. Shit, where those Mosins?! There was even a fucking Maxim gun down here! Along with that was a collection of propane tanks... no... not propane tanks. Muro climbed out from down there and looked around the house with urgency. Then outside, there it was, two wheels and a massive metal tube just leaning against the house among a pile of other scrap and a few bags of food he assumed.
These little shits had a fucking hell cannon ready to go.
"Send more men as soon as possible, there's a large cache of weapons to move. The village itself is pacified. No survivors." They'd need some help carrying this shit away. Thank God the fire didn't consume this place yet... or at least it didn't have to happen now. The village WAS supposed to be burned down anyway. As for the people still in the church? Well, at least they'd be in God's embrace soon.
Something caught his eye from the entrance to the village, it was his little brother with more sicarios all running. He could already hear Ignacia cussing up a storm to missing the party. "Ignacia. You are late!" A casual callout to him.
"Francisco! What the hell? You couldn't wait a moment longer?!" There was irritation, but it was balanced by the usual playful tone he practiced when ready to go.
"You weren't called in for this. Sueño does not like to wait for results. If you really wanted to join then you should have been with us or called ahead." Muro responded.
"Ahhhhh but I had something else to do."
"Let me guess. Posing with more chicks, torturing a few rebels, or shooting up a rival cartel convoy?" Muro asked, not expecting a serious answer.
"Actuallyyyyyy all of the above."
Muro shook his head, it was probably a lie. He did know Ignacia was doing something though, he just had to look at his social media to see what exactly. Which he didn't show much interest in, what was it called Tiktok or Twitter? What a crock of shit. Yet Ingacia ate it up. Yes it served as a great recruitment tool, but it appealed to the greedy and cocky. The kind who don't last a day in the cartel's training regimen. Good help was hard to find.
"So you found him?"
"Yes, and a weapons cache. Much of it is filled with older weapons like the Thompsons and a Maxim gun." Muro answered. Ignacia's eyes lit up hearing that.
"You for real? HAH! Can I have it? It'll look badass looking over the road to my hacienda in La Cruz. Just put some gold on it and BOOM! Dream death machine!"
"In addition they have ammunition and parts for a hell cannon."
Ignacia let out a condescending laugh. "Another one? Good lord these idiots are desperate. I mean how stupid do you have to be to make a weapon that's literally likely to blow up in your face. Made by a bunch of goat-loving morons no less? If they're in that much of a hurry to meet their god they should just stick to suicide vests!"
Muro shook his head at his little brother's casual dismissal of the crude but effective ingenuity of insurgents. "It works nonetheless. Don't forget we adopted some of their practices not even a decade ago, and the Americans know their danger well."
"The Americans? Please. The Americans took forever to deal with them because they were too chickenshit to put their boot down on people who should know better, and this is coming from a guy who has no love for America. They only managed to get that sandbox to calm down because those Engineers cocked up the Blacklist." He went along towards the house with the cache, leaving Muro to muse over it. Youthful and unashamed indeed. He still had much to learn on how to be a proper enforcer. He got the fighting, killing and torturing part down. Now if only he could learn to harness that violent behavior instead of constantly practicing it. Drop some of the social media antics while he was at it.
That said, he wasn't useless. He led the charge into Itacua when the fight with Unidad ended. It's been at least a couple of years since that happened and the rebels were still there. But they weren't winning. The cells found elsewhere in Bolivia were cut off from one another, scattered, without help. So when one was found, it was usually wiped away. The survivors just being small bands that didn't even have shoes. That was helped thanks to Ignacia's efforts to keep the rebels occupied in the province. Combine this with cooperation from the government and the 'silver or lead' offer, it was just a matter of time. Something that made Ignacia's antics bearable.
"HEY! I'm DEFINITELY taking this home! Help me carry this out."
Besides, he was Muro's little brother, and you cannot choose your family. Unlike others, he accepted it for what it was. There was time for amending him anyway. And he couldn't help but grin internally seeing him smile as he and his men carried that old machine gun out of the house, brought back the memories of when they were children playing cowboys. They got on each other's nerves but you don't replace family.
"HELLO! ANYONE THERE?!" That was his radio. "It's Luiz over at Atollo Farm! The Rebels found us! It's those fucking Jaguars! We need help! We nee-" The message was cut out.
"Luiz are you there?!" No response. "Luiz! Respond!" Nothing. "Anyone near Atollo respond now! Don't let Amaru escape!" Putting the radio aside he made to move. "Three of you, with me! The rest of you stay here and sweep the area until I return!" There came the curse of fighting insurgencies and keeping things on the down low. It was his call to keep Amaru alive and hidden 'in plain sight' just in case the rebels somehow mounted an assault or worse Unidad tried pulling a fast one. Someone talked, there's no way bad luck struck this situation. He was already thinking of who knew where Amaru was. That itself was a small pool, himself included.
"Hey, Francisco! Wait up! I'm not missing this!" Ignacia was determined to be part of this. Muro didn't argue, it would be a proper lesson of showing his brother how things can go wrong, and that such things must be mended quickly before it interferes with business. They took one of the trucks with a mounted gun. Muro took the gunner seat, much to his little brother's chagrin. Taking of he tried getting into contact again. The bad news, there was still no response from the party guarding Amaru. The good news, there was a QRF already inbound and about to hit the farm. Another insurance policy Muro put into play, just in case. As for Culta, his men would be able to handle the situation in the meantime.
Amaru was all that mattered right now.
