EXCERPT

Prologue

The United States of America, without argument, is the biggest super power in the world today. In the past one hundred years, it has flexed its muscles in countless conflicts around the globe; the Baltics, the Persian Gulf, and previous to that, Vietnam, and this is before taking into consideration many of the smaller conflicts. Unfortunately, today the American public has a bigger war to worry about, one that is an ongoing concern. It is a war that is killing the innocent - children and elderly alike. This enemy doesn’t wear military uniforms on the streets. War hadn’t been declared. It isn’t about religion or politics, but both have found themselves caught up in it.

The cause of this war is a multi billion-dollar business worldwide. This business is narcotics. For years, the major governments of the world have joined together to try and slow this fast growing trade down. From the jungles of Latin America to the streets of L.A, New York, London, Paris, Frankfurt, Tokyo and Sydney, to name but a few, each country, city and neighbourhood has a problem with drugs and the effect of them. Children are dying. Everyone is a victim in one way or another, either through using, or on the receiving end of a junkie's need to fund his habit. Mothers and Fathers stand helpless, watching their children become addicted, their own families changing before their very eyes. Sons and daughters became addicted; they start off by stealing their parents’ cash, and then move to stealing houses, then to holding up shops with firearms. Drugs have affected everyone. In some families, children have to sit back and watch their own parents fight a losing battle against their own habits.

Narcotics are evil. They have destroyed families, relationships, homes and even whole neighbourhoods.

Three years ago, when Jack Stewart began his term in the Whitehouse, he had promised to have a positive impact on the war on drugs. In his first two years, his ‘zero-tolerance’ attitude on dealers and users was working. Press coverage and publicity was getting the news across to the people. But it was the big fish that needed to be caught. The press splattered the headlines all over the front pages, telling the public that drug running was slowing down and the number of users in the USA was getting lower.

During the summer of 2000, a minor incident in Columbia caused a civil war between the infamous cartels. The Fastino cartel was sure that another, smaller local cartel was the cause of a disease that had torn through millions of dollars worth of their crops. The authorities in Columbia did their best not to intervene, as their was hope that these illegal organisations would do enough damage to each other to kill the whole trade off, or at least slow it down.

Fastino’s cartel was based in the far south of the country, and was by far the largest cartel in the region. It took less than a month for him to frighten the smaller narcotic organisations.

Gabriel Fastino was a ruthless man. When he saw red, people suffered. But he began to loose his rational thinking and become reckless. Fastino himself pushed the war into the north.

Another large cartel was based there at the foot of the Andes, led by a man that wasn’t known as well as Fastino was - a sleeping giant, waiting for his wake up call. His name was Carlos Ricard.

Carlos Ricard was only 31 when he took over the enterprise that had been led by his father, Miquel. The senior Ricard, a popular man amongst the cartels, was shot dead outside a restaurant in Bogotá. All evidence showed that Miguel had been gunned down by a rival cartel. In the middle of a busy day, he was shot eighteen times from several angles, along with three of his closest friends.

His son, Carlos, had it from a reliable source that it was not a cartel killing. He knew that the authorities that had killed his father, and had made it look like another cartel’s work.

Carlos was in England at the time of his father’s death; Miguel had sent his only child to England to be educated at Oxford University. There he had studied Politics and Business, passing both with flying colours.

Carlos had become a new bread of cartel. His education had made him dangerous. He spent years watching and studying his father’s ways of doing business. Experience and education was a receipt for a successful business in the growing drug industry.

Carlos was a dangerous man – young, ambitious and ruthless. The people that worked for him were all at the top in their fields, and employed from all four corners of the world.

Also on his payroll were politicians, scientists and generals from as far away as China, Europe and North America. All sat in the wings, waiting to accommodate Ricard when their assistance was required

Before the war had raged too far north, Ricard had sent a team of unarmed advisors to other smaller businesses in his area. The team was sent to discuss the rampaging Fastinos Their advances North had begun to worry those cartels in his path. Ricard's team of advisers were going to offer a deal that only a fool would refuse. Everyone knew that Fastino was insane, and had plenty of firepower. Left to do his own thing, he would become the only cartel left in Columbia.

Ricard’s deal was simple; they had to join forces - create a coalition - if they were to defeat Fastino, and then return to there own businesses. Ricard wanted nothing off them. Carlos Ricard knew that his army alone could defeat Fastino, but he didn’t want to revel all his aces too soon. There was money to be made elsewhere, and Fastino’s stupidity was just wasting his time.

The job of stopping Fastino was left to a close friend of Carlos. An ex-major in the Green Berets, decorated for his actions in the Gulf war, Steve Mallard proved a good friend to have. Mallard had won his medals in the Gulf war as he led his advanced team into Al-Jahra in Kuwait, where they fended off around 200 men from Iraq’s Republican guard until the armoured divisions turned up as part of the actions of liberating Kuwait, part of Operation Desert Storm.

Within months, Fastino and his men were heading back south, battered and bruised, tails between their legs. It wasn’t long before the war had died down and things attempted to return to normal. Fastino stayed in business, but had learnt a lesson - stick to your own business and don’t interfere with the north. All the cartels that Ricard had joined forces with went back to their own businesses as Ricard had promised he’d allow. Ricard had earned a little more respect. Unknowingly, the respect the other cartels gave to Ricard made him a much more powerful man - more powerful than any cartel could imagine.

The civil war in Columbia had given Jack Stewart the ideal time to hit home his war on drugs. After the war, cartels would take months - even years - to get back to full strength and operational capabilities. Stewart had called upon the DEA, Navy SEAL’s and Green Berets to finish the job Fastino had started but failed miserably with. The DEA started a new joint venture with the armed forces, where its agents would be trained to a higher standard. America and Britain were the main nations that were helping the Columbian government to fight the cartels themselves. To both nations, it would not only help keep the amount of drugs off their streets, but it would also provide valuable training for their own troops. British soldiers and US both trained the Columbian police in effective jungle warfare. Jack Stewart saw this as the ideal smokescreen for his own governments black ops in Columbia against the cartels.

Matthew Brock, Director of the CIA, knew all about the training of these new task forces. The operations had nothing to do with the CIA, but it was a project that the CIA demanded they be a part of.

Before long, Brock had found himself an unidentified informer from one of the cartels. Brock was now supplying the DEA with accurate information on shipments into the states - times, dates and security that would come with the products. The new task force was raiding hideaways the cartels had thought were top secret. They were finding the criminals everywhere in the world they thought they could hide.

* * * *

Half a mile from shore, the eighty-foot Enchanted, a luxury yacht, gently bobbed up and down in the dark waters. Across the bay was the bustling, lively Miami harbour. This had proved to be a popular place to bring in drugs, as it’s busy harbour provided a smokescreen for illegal shipments. Since the harbour was open all night, it would take only a matter of hours to divide up the drugs and ship them across America by planes, trains, whatever it took.

Inside the port was an old, decaying fishing vessel. It had been moored a long time, the deck dirty and obviously rotten. It had been some time since this old girl saw a day’s work at sea. Due to its bad condition, it was in the working part of the harbour, away from the million dollar yachts. In fact, this boat was ready for scrap.

But tonight it served a greater purpose. Four men stood in the cabin with the lights off: Master Sergeant Mike Powell, Sergeant Steve Vickers and two DEA agents. On the deck of the fishing vessel was a SEAL sniper, the crosshairs of his sniper rifle fixed on a Latin man who was pacing the deck of a yacht nearby. The guy on the deck of the yacht was making himself look like an obvious lookout. Armed with a Russian-made AK47 assault rifle, he immediately made himself a target.

From inside the fishing vessel, the SEAL team and DEA agents had spotted five targets in total, four men and a woman, all of whom who had occasionally shown their faces on deck during the course of the night. They had been informed by the CIA that this yacht should not have arrived until midnight, but they had arrived early and had to stay out at sea as whoever was to receive the drugs wouldn’t be ready for them. The strike force had to make their move before the yacht made its way into port, in case the situation became hostile and a firefight broke out. People were less likely to get hurt out at sea.

Approximately a third of a mile out from the yacht, the US Coast Guard, who had been tracking them, had a vessel doing a slow routine pass. The SEAL team of four remained inside the Coast Guard’s ship. They were ready for the ‘go’ command.

Whoever it was on watch on the yacht didn’t notice six heads emerge from the dark waters on either side of the vessel. SEAL team four was ready to strike.

Throughout history, Special Forces have been used - military leaders had found smaller groups of men could more easily cause havoc and disrupt enemy communications and supplies, pulling troops back from the front lines. This was a roll first brought to light by the founder of the British Special Air Service, David Sterling, a man who, from his hospital bed, proposed that smaller groups of specially trained men get behind enemy lines in North Africa. There real roll was actually noticed during World War II, where Special Forces really came into their own to help win the war. Today the roll of the Special Forces has changed; from the theatre of war, they found themselves as counter-terrorist operators working on their own soil alongside the likes of the DEA and customs to wage a war on drugs and terrorist attacks on their nation’s own soil.

The six Navy SEALs slowly and quietly scaled the sides of the hull. As the team reached the deck of the yacht, the SEAL Commander watched through his NVG’s (Night Vision Goggles). As his team boarded the vessel, he gave his first command. The sniper on the deck slowly squeezed the trigger of his PSG-1 sniper rifle, the crosshairs of the sights firmly fixed on the target’s right temple. The target dropped his head to light a cigarette. The crosswind across the harbour made the shot a difficult one. Years of training had given the sniper the confidence to squeeze off a silent round. Watching through the sights, he saw the target take a deep intake of nicotine before his head jolted to one side, sending a spray of blood and bone over the cabin wall behind him before the body finally slumped to the deck.

“This is Blue One. Target is down. I confirm, target is down,” the sniper said into his mic over the command net.

“Go, go, go,” Master Sergeant Powell called over the radio. The team boarded the yacht. Working in pairs, one SEAL would use the butt of his MP5 assault rifle to smash a window while the other threw in a flash bang. At the other end of the yacht, more flash bangs were thrown in through the main door. The flash bangs were used to confuse the enemy; a bright flash of light followed by a deafening bang would cause the victim to take cover, disorientating anyone in the room, and allowing the team to enter and control the situation.

From the harbour, those on the fishing vessel could see the yacht lighting up from the flash bangs. Just as the ‘go’ order was given, a helicopter that had been waiting on a helipad with the rotors turning took off to provide support, with another six Navy SEALs on board the helicopter, ready to abseil down on the yacht and provide cover until the Coast Guard arrived. At the same time, the Coast Guard vessel changed course and headed for the yacht so the rest of the SEAL team and DEA agents could board the vessel to make the arrests.

The team moved quickly through the yacht, clearing each room. Several shots were fired. The whole incident was over in less than a minute. The operation had gone well. The drugs found on board had a street value of eight million dollars; not a major change in the war on drugs, but enough to get maybe a front-page story in the press. In total, they had found seven people on board; five men and two women. Three of the traffickers were killed. All were arrested. Unfortunately, being Columbians, paperwork would most likely get in the way, and in six month’s time, they would be doing this same run gain.

* * * *

The Navy SEALs had struck up a good relationship with the DEA and customs when it came to maritime operations. The operation in Miami had scored the government a point both in the war on drugs and politically.

America was taking the war to the cartels too, using Black-Ops in Columbia to slow down transportation. A DEA special task force was flying over the jungle of Columbia on yet another routine operation. They were using three, aged Bell Huey helicopters, simply because they were a common sight zipping over treetops. Flying just a few feet over the jungle canopy felt like flying over a never-ending green sea to the passengers. It was eight in the morning and already the sun was beginning to beat down, causing a heat haze to rise from the canopy of trees. Both sliding doors were wide open; some DEA agents allowed their feet to dangle inches above the helicopter’s skis. The agents in the back were fastened into their seats or the floor panels, as occasionally the pilot would have to pull up or to the side. Because they were flying so low, some birds would fly from trees in flocks as the helicopter approached; the last thing they wanted was a bird being sucked into the intake system and causing a crash.

The operation was taking part in Northern Columbia; the cartels had made hundreds of airstrips in the jungle. These sites were the starting point of the drugs’ long journey onto the streets. The small airfields they used varied; some were decoys with just an airstrip and nothing around it at all. Some were occupied with huts on the airfield. Others had the building up to half a mile into the jungle, with only a small track leading to the airfield. With all the decoys, it made it hard to do any accurate operations. Areas that were occupied were normally filled with families that farmed for the cartels, with just a handful of cartel members who were there to scare off rival cartels.

The DEA had information that this was a hot spot of activity, and the result of this operation should be a major bust. Altogether, the operation was using twenty-four men; six DEA agents in each chopper, a pilot and co-pilot. Two of the aging Huey’s were fitted with M60 heavy machine guns that were only there for support should the ground team be caught in a hostile situation. The objective was the same as the previous half a dozen operations that they had completed successfully; land at the airfield and arrest any cartel members, chemists, and labourers. Any narcotics were to be destroyed on site.

Taking the long route to the target were three trucks filled with Columbian government troops who would arrive and take anyone arrested back to the nearest police HQ for interrogation and trial. When the government troops had taken away the prisoners, the DEA team would vanish back into the skies and away from any unwanted press coverage.

Hawk One was the call sign of the leading Huey; in the back, the DEA agents checked and double-checked their weapons and equipment. They were all armed with standard M16 assault rifles and a Colt pistol for support. Each agent wore light Kevlar body armour in case of any small arms fire, which they had only experienced once before. They hadn’t lost a man yet, and weren’t planning on it.

Hawk One was fast approaching a hill where the trees climbed up and over, making it look like a large wave in this green sea. As the pilot got closer, he pulled back on the controls, lifting the nose of the Huey up and over the brow. Once at the summit, he pushed the nose of the chopper down on a fast approach to the target that was on the other side of the hill. Hawks Two and Three were close behind; all agents were ready to go. Hawk One dropped down to the airstrip, while Hawks Two and Three circled, looking for any hostile activity.

Six DEA agents jumped the few foot down on to the dusty surface. Once on the floor, they all took cover positions and awaited Hawk Two and Three to drop off their passengers. Once all sixteen agents were on the floor, two left in the Hueys to man the M60, the Hueys flew off to make a half-a-mile perimeter and await the pickup call from the ground.

The reception they got was surprising. The area was dead; no workers, nothing, just a few wooden huts.

Cautiously, the agents advanced. At the end of the runway were the six huts. It was possible that this was just a holding area, and they had been given the wrong information; either way, they had to check it out. They split into teams, looking for signs of activity, but it was a ghost town.

Agents Harris, Lewis and Gutowski headed to a hut on the far side, Harris dropping to his haunches covering the only entrance should someone inside be lying in wait. Lewis and Gutowski stormed in, butts of their M16 assault rifles firmly pressed into their shoulders. The room was empty of life; just a small wooden table and two chairs were left. Scattered over the table was a deck of cards.

“Looks like we disturbed them in a hurry,” Gutowski pointed out.

“Must have heard the choppers arriving and ran into the jungle,” said Harris, turning over the two hands of cards to see who would of won.

The rest of the teams found a similar story in the huts; an old fireplace was just outside the one, but the embers weren’t warm.

Agent Johnston was in charge of the ground force and was about to recall all his men back to the pickup zone, when he heard one of his agents shouting. Johnston ran across the dusty single-track road with his weapon over his shoulder until he came to a hut that seemed all on its own. Agents Wallace and Wright had be assigned to clear that particular hut, and by the tone in their voices as they had called over, they were the only ones to have found something. Johnston had delayed calling the choppers in to pick them up while he checked out what they had found; all the other agents were put on standby just in case anyone was about and tried to run. As he reached the hut, Johnston expected to find what they normally did - narcotics, in their crudest state, or the equipment to pack them up. He jumped the small flight of three steps and wandered into the hut where Wallace and Wright were.

“Holy shit,” he remarked.

Johnston looked around the room a second time to make sure what he saw was real before he looked back out across the airfield. Stacked floor to roof were wooden crates, each one stamped with US MARINES in black paint and a serial number below. He could see that several had already been opened, as splinters of wood and a crowbar lay on the floor.

“Wallace, crack one open and take a look,” Johnston told his agent.

Complying, Wallace grabbed the crowbar and levered it under the lid of the first crate. With a bit of brute force, the lid cracked several times before finally coming off. Under the packaging was what Johnston had feared he would see; twelve M16 assault rifles, just like the ones they were armed with now. The most widely used weapon in the US armed forces. Why they were in crates marked for the Marines, nobody knew.

Hung loosely around Johnston’s neck was a camera, normally used for photographing the drugs found before the DEA team destroyed them. Clicking like a tourist on holiday, he took pictures of every crate, making sure the serial number was in each picture.

“Send the choppers back. We better stay with this stuff and load it onto trucks rather than leave it here,” Johnston spoke out loud to no one in particular.

Wright darted out of the hut toward his colleague with the radio, and in no time at all, the circling choppers could be heard vanishing into the distance.

Four of the agents had decided that the area was clear, and would sit out in the sun and wait for the Columbian police to come and replace them; there was no harm in topping up their tans while they worked. One of them had just stripped off his top when there was a rustle from the bushes on the edge of the green wall of jungle.

“Hey, who’s there?” he called out.

He looked hard into the dark green thicket of jungle, trying to see who or what it was, but the movement continued.

“Come on, show yourself.”

The movement was only fifty meters from their position. The other three agents that were sunbathing with him stood, ready to shoot from the hip with their assault rifles.

“You’re out-numbered. Come out now.” This was his final call.

One of the other agents was startled by something else he had seen close to the initial rustle. Without thinking, and being somewhat of a new recruit to this kind of mission, he applied too much pressure to the trigger, and a short burst of fire flew into the jungle. The first few rounds must of struck the trunks of trees, as there was a thwack-thwack-thwack noise. The forth round produced a scream.

There was silence for a minute. It felt like every creature in the jungle had stopped to hear what was happening. Johnston had stepped out of the hut with the crates to see which of his agents had opened fire and at what. The silence continued. It was a scary silence; some of the agents could hear their own hearts beating.

It was then that their fear hit home. As quickly as the silence had come, it was brought to an end; a hailstorm of bullets flew out of the jungle from both the North and East sides, pinning down the agents. Although it was bright daylight on the airstrip, in the jungle was a different matter, the canopy of trees acted as a massive sun barrier. From where the DEA team stood, it looked black inside the jungle. But now it was being illuminated with muzzle flashes and the familiar noise of the old Russian manufactured AK47 assault rifles. Rounds were tearing up the ground beneath them; several agents had been hit already.

“Take cover,” Johnston shouted as he dived back in the hut.

The thin, weak walls of the hut weren’t enough to stop the rounds. As Johnson lay on the floor, he was being continually pelted with bits of debris.

Wallace and Wright were pinned down in the hut with him. Wallace had decided to see if he could evaluate the events and call for the radio operator to call the choppers back. Crawling towards the door, he took a look at the sight of the jungle flashing with lights.

“Can you see anything?” Johnston asked.

“Shit, there must be almost a hundred of the bastards,” Wallace replied. “I’ll get the choppers back.”

Like an Olympic sprinter, Wallace got ready; back arched, one leg straight, the other slightly bent, he took off like a leopard chasing its prey. He had made at least ten meters when the first one struck home. From where Johnston lay, he could see the muscle and flesh rip from Wallace’s right legs; large bits of flesh blew out of the opposite side, landing on the floor like a bit of fresh meat. Wallace grasped his thigh as a second round struck him, this time in the hip. A loud crack could be heard as the round smashed his pelvis, sending a fine mist of blood exploding from his body. His body slumped to the floor like a sack; he was wailing and screaming like a child. Blood soon covered the dry earth that he lay on. It would be only a matter of minutes before he died of blood loss.

His partner, agent Wright, wasn’t prepared to let that happen. In spite of Johnson’s argument to stay put, he too dashed out of the hut. He was only a few feet from Wallace when he met the same problem; only this time, he wasn’t as lucky as his partner. In mid run, a bullet passed through his armpit, ripping though his lungs and ribcage. His limp body carried on past Wallace, the momentum pushing him forward before he fell face first in the dirt near his partner.

Two other agents could do nothing to help. As they ran over and grabbed Wallace’s screaming body, they grabbed him under the arms and began to drag him to safety. But the cries soon stopped. As they dragged him, he was hit a third time; this time, directly in the face, sending bone, blood and flesh over those carrying him.

Johnston’s men were dropping like flies; it was a relief to hear the familiar thumping noise of the old bell Huey’s rotors as they closed in.

Like a heavenly chorus, the M60 heavy machineguns began to pepper the edge of the jungle. The covering fire was suppressing that of whoever was waiting in ambush for them, and allowing Johnston’s men to take suitable cover till a chopper could land. Someone panicking had already thrown a smoke marker onto the airfield, but as it was it was far too dangerous for the helicopters to land.

From where Johnston was positioned, he could see what was about to happen. In spite of the heavy gunfire, he stood upright, waving his arms to the helicopter on the far side of the field. As if in slow motion, a white trail of smoke left the jungle canopy and headed straight at the chopper. Within seconds, Hawk two had been hit, its tail bursting into flames, before the crew on board vanished in the explosion that engulfed the whole helicopter.