Retribution Road Jon Coon (best android ereader TXT) 📖

The caravan, however, had no intention of stopping. The buses stopped, the trucks stopped, and thousands of refugees were given food and water, patted on the back, and pointed north on every back road and goat trail in northern Mexico. It would take every Federale in Mexico to find them all. And, in the meantime, the narco-subs, oblivious to their dark shadows above, proceeded through cool blue water.

Tom sat in the heat of the Palenque hangar, 488 miles southeast of Mexico City where the airshow would take place at an old airfield now seldomly used, except for the flight school and the skydiving operations.

At the abandoned airfield, rows of hangars stood rusting and empty. Not even civilian pilots entrusted their planes to the deteriorating buildings and broken tarmac. It was, however, a terrific venue for occasional air shows. This one, on Independence Day, was a long-standing tradition, helping to celebrate “the cry of independence”—the beginning of Mexico’s revolt against Spain on September 16, 1820.

The World War II vintage airfield had ample parking and plenty of room for portable bleachers and vendors. Some of that assembly had already begun, including a large podium that, when finished, would fly red-white-and-green flags and banners.

Tom awaited the arrival of the first of the CAF planes and pondered the possibilities. He saw multiple opportunities and wondered, like a game show contestant, if he had chosen the correct door to the grand prize. They would stage the planes in Palenque, then fly two hours northwest to the abandoned airfield for the show. So far so good.

Tom’s sat phone rang again. “Caldera is broke,” Jimmy reported. “His holdings in the US and Europe—fake news. He bought a lot of land in someplace called the Lacandon Jungle, and he’s given millions to various charities and politicians. He’s land rich and cash poor. He couldn’t make a car payment on a ten-year-old Prius.”

Tom thanked Jimmy and hung up, then worked to piece it all together in his mind. Who was this guy? Weren’t drug lords supposed to have houses with four-foot-thick walls made of hundred-dollar bills?

With the chaos at the border Caldera had caused by releasing the Guatemalan refugees, it was that much easier for his mules—often drug-hauling families—to sneak across the border. For every one caught, ten made it across and quickly vanished into neighborhoods of dealers and dopers.

In the Gulf, the five subs were within hours of Galveston, Morgan City, Apalachicola, Crystal River, and Key West. All chosen because of their remote coast lines, minimal shipping, and friendly distribution networks. From the air and on the sea, the military followed the signals of the trackers Ray had installed during their daring raid. It looked like success was assured. Finally, a bust that might really do damage to the hated cartel.

Off the coast of Galveston, at the fringe of the Baytown oil field, the first sub came to periscope depth, and with its digital optical periscope, scanned the surface. Convinced they were alone, they signaled two shrimpers to meet them and transfer the cargo. The sub remained at periscope depth until the shrimpers arrived, and then the sub surfaced, and the boats tied up, one on either side, and the crews began the arduous task of transferring six tons of plastic-wrapped drugs. From its low orbit above, the KH-12 got clear images of the transfer as it raced across the clear night sky.

The shrimpers pulled away shortly before dawn and, dragging their nets, began working back toward the coast and their home port—a processing plant just past the expansive Texas A&M campus, docks, and marine labs. Docking at the loading pier, they awaited the forklifts with pallets and large tubs that would be lowered into the boat’s holds and surface with bricks of drugs covered with lots of ice and a few shrimp.

Unloading took place in broad daylight with security fences assuring no tourists would come for casual dock walks during the process. Once inside the immaculately clean building, the drugs were immediately loaded into delivery trucks, this time under boxes of quick-frozen shrimp and fish.

It was a plan that had worked for years. Only this time there was a slight variation: as the trucks were loaded, DEA Agent Mickey Valentine slipped tracking devices into the bins before stacking in the seafood boxes and dry ice. When her job was done and her shift finished, she changed out of her white rubber boots called Cajun dancing slippers, removed her heavy black rubber gloves and apron, put them in her locker, then calmly punched out her time card and walked out of the plant, never to return.

The DEA vehicles gave the trucks plenty of room as they dispersed through Galveston Beach and beyond, but with each stop, cameras rolled and notes were made. By the end of the day, the request list for arrests and warrants included dozens of businesses and hundreds of names. Galveston Beach would have clean streets … at least for a day or two. But the bust had to wait until the process could be repeated with the other five boats.

Offshore from Morgan City, Louisiana, when the sub surfaced, it was met by a single, hundred-foot, black-hulled crew boat—lean, loud, and fast. The drugs were stacked on pallets on the rear deck and covered with heavy tarps. As the sub submerged and disappeared into the dark-brown water from the Atchafalaya River, the crew boat captain pushed the throttles to the max, put the boat up on plane, and headed inshore to the pass and then upriver to trucks waiting at a fuel dock on the edge of town.

The crew tied up the boat and waited until dark, and after making certain they were the only boat at the dock, called for the trucks and the small truck crane that quickly offloaded the pallets into them. This time it was the job of a roustabout, Emile Wilson, to plant the trackers. As he slid the slings off the pallets, he