Baja California. Mexicali TV station.
Noon prime time.
The host, with delicate makeup, had just finished the news. As the camera pulled back and she was about to deliver the closing line, a staffer rushed in from the outside relay bay and handed a document to the director.
The host immediately understood—new material had just come in.
The director glanced at it and had it passed to the host. Her brow furrowed when she took it, but she was a professional. Her expression turned solemn.
"Breaking news!"
"Six kilometers from the Baja border, armed drug traffickers attacked a military camp in Sonora. Casualties are heavy. Shells at one point fell into Baja territory, causing 17 civilian casualties. We, the security forces, strongly condemn this behavior and will make the drug dealers pay in blood!"
"Baja Security Minister Alejandro states a new wave of strikes against drug traffickers is underway!"
Major Barrera: Huh? What exactly was I attacked by?
But whoever speaks first gets to define it.
Even before the shelling ended, city hall's press release was already damn well written.
If you're half a step slow, you don't even get to eat crap.
…
After two consecutive salvos from 12 A-19 field guns—
A 500-strong, fully armed EDTV force smashed into a Sonora spot called Cambra Valley.
Here hid drug traffickers and their families, as well as roughly 2,000 hectares of plantations. It was a key Sinaloa industrial zone.
Behind the ground force sat a 12-vehicle BM-13 rocket artillery battalion.
"Ground force, attack axis!"
"Hold 300 meters!"
"Creeping barrage!"
"Fire!"
Twelve BM-13s lined up in a row. At the commander's order, 192 rockets launched toward the target!
Boom boom boom boom boom!
At about 200 meters ahead of the charging ground force, a string of explosions erupted. Smoke screened both sides' lines of sight.
This tactic was invented at the Somme in WWI, long called by infantry "the piano piece before the charge," protecting friendly troops within an effective range.
On the Humvee, the driver tore toward the valley. The gunner nearly bounced out, finger clamped down on the trigger, never letting go. But the smoke was choking. The driver pinched his nose, missed a beat, and the right tire clipped into a roughly 40 cm deep rut—then the vehicle went out of control.
It rolled…
Behind, the leg-bound infantry buried their heads and charged forward.
When the 36th Battalion's camp blew up, the valley's cartel leaders knew something was off. Victor must be coming.
That son of a bitch—can't he rest two days?
They shouted for the traffickers to wheel out heavy weapons.
"Hurry up! Aim at that smoke! Sight in!" On the valley's commanding height were about a hundred traffickers. They were quite organized, busy but not panicked, even laying out a gun line.
You could see plenty of artillery, but… hard to identify models. More like homemade. The bores were plenty thick—big enough to stick a head in.
At least 100mm caliber and up.
These were actually the tubes traffickers used to "lob" drugs. When facing inspections along the US–Mexico border, with no way to deliver by hand, they'd stuff drugs into a tube and fire them across.
With a brain like that, couldn't they do anything better?
But in Mexico besides doing drug trafficking, it seems you just get done by drug trafficking.
After "external consultants" tweaked these DIY pieces, they could at least match WWII-era mortar-level weapons.
"Ready!" The cartel sub-leader raised his flag—then saw a trafficker still sticking out his ass. He planted a boot: "Damn it, ready already!"
The guy scrambled up, clutched a shell, watched for the leader's hand to drop—then hurried the round down the tube.
Thoomp~
A soft report. The shell flew, detonating in the smoke.
If it explodes, it can kill!
A shell happened to drop into a squad of seven or eight officers. The lead sergeant's pupils shrank. He roared: "Refugiarse! (Take cover!)"
He charged to kick the round away.
But before his foot met metal, the shell blew. His nearly 200-pound body with gear was tossed into the air. When he hit, he was mangled. His right leg was gone from the calf down.
His face was badly wounded. He gasped, blood seeping from his nose. He didn't look likely to live.
The blast wave and shrapnel dropped nearby officers too.
This…
Is this damn war or anti-drug ops?
"Artillery! Artillery! Cover the front!"
Commanding EDTV was an EDM veteran—Victor's number two besides Kennedy—nickname "M4," Zolf Sherman!
With a moniker like that you knew he was a big man.
Seeing traffickers with artillery, he immediately called the artillery battalion behind.
"Copy!"
Katyusha crews cranked elevation in unison. They didn't have precise coordinates—so blast it!
To hell with math—just pound it.
Soviet weapons weren't designed with coordinates in mind in the first place. As long as you can blanket an area with fire, it works.
Whoosh whoosh whoosh…
Hundreds of rockets ripped over Zolf Sherman's head. The whole valley shuddered twice. He grinned. "Blow those bastards to hell!"
But just as he braced for a second volley—it… didn't come.
He was about to key the radio when the other side spoke up first, urgent: "We're under attack! Repeat, under attack! Damn it, it's all traffickers—glory to Victor! Long live Victor!"
The last words carried desperation and madness.
Zolf Sherman blinked. Traffickers… were running flanking tactics?
Shit!
These dogs were playing tactics now?
Had traffickers gotten smarter?
They were people too—not that wooden. Sitting still to be shelled was pointless. Traffickers moved fast and were well-suited for guerrilla tactics. A few dozen men slipping off was hard to hunt down.
Coolly, Zolf switched channels. "Pilot, artillery support group has been ambushed. Proceed to support."
"Roger!"
A Mi-8 lifted from the Baja border with 20 troopers aboard—EDM's elite team, uniform black fatigues, DEM-standard masks with squad insignia.
A soaring eagle—and Victor's bust above it.
Yep, new design. Flashy enough?
"Gentlemen, our job is to complete the mission! Any time, any place, any hardship, fear nothing!"
The platoon sergeant's eyes were deep, voice weighty.
The helo flew toward the target. Gunfire already echoed. It hovered a few hundred meters off the fight as everyone fast-roped down. They were just about to haul the ropes when the radar screeched a warning.
"Ground missile closing fast!"
The pilot threw a slick maneuver, but the missile re-tracked and chased.
"FIM-92!!! (Stinger!)" He glanced back and cursed, face grim, jinking the bird hard, even diving into the treeline below.
"Victor protect him. Men—move!" The sergeant said, charging the squad toward the artillery group.
On a low knoll opposite, two blond, blue-eyed foreigners in camo lay prone. One freckled kid looked boyish, but his voice was rough. "Hey, missed it!"
The other shouldered the Stinger, brow furrowed. "We've got rats inbound."
The freckled one blew his fringe like an old habit, grinned. "Brave, what's the worry? You afraid of Mexican cops?"
"I'm surprised they even have a helicopter. You trained with Mexican SOF yourself—they're absolute trash."
Brave frowned. "My gut tells me these ones aren't simple."
As silly as that sounded, it tightened the freckled man's expression. "You sure?"
When Brave nodded, he was blunt: "Then we pull out!"
They were "consultants" hired by the cartel. From the look of them, they'd served in the U.S. military, with deep combat experience.
Brave's "intuition" had saved them many times.
"Down!" He yanked the freckled one into a squat. A burst stitched the dirt wall behind them—piu piu piu.
"Fuck, that fast!" the freckled man barked, popping his head to see a team of officers closing in. Clearly the other side had already marked them.
No kidding!
With that yellow mop, you look like a Super Saiyan on a hilltop?
Who wouldn't see you?
"Kill them!" The platoon sergeant, momentarily surprised they weren't Mexican, still gave the order.
Capture them? That only invited unnecessary risk. Whether they lived was up to them.
Brave snarled, "Fight out—fuck! Fuck—"
He didn't finish before a rocket flew straight at them.
They shot at aircraft—these officers shot at men!
Brave grabbed the freckled one and leapt off the knoll. A massive shockwave "blew" both of them into the dirt.
Lesson learned:
Rambo is fake!
Who doesn't get blown off their feet by a rocket?
Brave felt his insides shift. He forced himself up, hauled the freckled man, and sprinted for the trees.
…
"Take them—take them! Protect your plantations! Pick up weapons and kill the cops outside!"
"Raise them high—charge out! These cops want to destroy your wealth! Kill them! Besides defending the fields, you'll get a $100 reward."
In the valley, traffickers armed farmers and handed out weapons, hammering them with propaganda.
"Everything here was given by Mr. Guzmán. He made sure you had food, didn't starve. But now someone's coming to take your land. What do you do?"
"Kill them!" someone shouted. Then a roar of fury boiling over.
Zolf Sherman and the "infantry officers" were about to storm the valley when a shout swelled inside!
Then poured out hundreds of… farmers? Traffickers?
Wielding sickles, pitchforks, and sticks?
The sight stunned EDTV officers. Those out front instinctively lowered their muzzles—when a woman slashed a sickle at a lead officer's head. The helmet took the blow, the blade slid, and lodged in his shoulder.
The officer screamed and kicked her away. Looking at the sickle buried in his shoulder, his heart quailed.
The traffickers were… using families as weapons?
Those 2,000 hectares of plantations in the valley fed tens of thousands of farmers. They were part of the traffickers' interest web. When officers came to fight drugs, they often resisted the most.
Sometimes…
They just wanted a bite to eat.
Traffickers knew this. That's why they emphasized it when recruiting.
Most importantly… Mexico's authorities weren't reliable. They had deleted the farmers' constitutional rights to land.
Then…
You get it!
Zolf Sherman's eyes hardened, but he quickly recovered. He pressed his comm and issued a cool order. "Open fire!"
"Anyone who picks up a weapon and resists is a drug trafficker!"
"Our job is to clear them."
Civilians? Drug traffickers?
The right to judge belongs to Mr. Victor.
(End of Chapter)
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