Agent-In-Charge Tim Needle's POV
Oakland International Airport
Our plane had landed just after four in the afternoon local time, and I still hadn't been told what the operation was. As our customized transport taxied to a remote section of the airport, I looked over my men with pride. Commanding the FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team was the pinnacle of my career in Special Operations, more satisfying than my time in Delta Force. We were the civilian equivalent of military Special Forces, but we were better because we stayed together longer. We trained and operated overseas with Navy Seals, Army Green Berets and Delta Force, Marine Corps Scout Snipers and Air Force Combat Air Controllers. Right now, some of the Training group was in Israel working with a Special Reconnaissance Platoon in how to storm airplanes and buses held by terrorists. The other half of the training group was in England updating parachute assault tactics with the Special Air Service.
The Team was divided into three groups that rotated on a 120-day cycle. One would be in training, one would be in Support, and the third would be Operational. The Operational group was expected to be able to respond anywhere in the continental United States within four hours of a phone call.
That phone call came just after noon today. We were at our headquarters in Quantico, just finishing lunch after morning physical and weapons training. We geared up and were wheels up on the FBI jet in less than thirty minutes.
My Team had been on this rotation for the last four weeks and had deployed to six times. Other than being fooled by the Sons of Tezcatlipoca's disappearance at their safe house in Florida, we'd had a good record thus far. Our sniper team ended a bank robbery turned hostage situation in western Minnesota. Our group supported three hostage situations resulting in peaceful surrenders and arrested a man holding members of a church group hostage without injuries.
I just hoped we'd see action this time.
The plane came to a stop, and a portable stairway drove over. A man in a suit ran up as soon as they were in place, and the door opened long enough for him to come inside. He was a senior law enforcement agent, but I didn't recognize him. "Tim Needles, Hostage Rescue Team Leader," I said as I shook his hand.
"Drug Enforcement Agency Director Frank Grimes, Los Angeles," he said. "Gather your men; I only want to do this once. I'm going to need complete operational security on this; anyone with a cellphone turns it off and turns it in now. No phone calls are to be made or received by your team. I'm the only contact, and I'm with you until this is over."
I nodded, leading him to an area in the middle of the plane with a table and multiple computers we used for in-flight briefings. One of my guys collected the phones, putting them in a drawer. Director Grimes pulled some maps out of his briefcase along with a laptop. One of my guys hooked it to the screens, while he spread out a map of a warehouse near the docks in Oakland. "I received a tip this morning that the Sons of Tezcatlipoca's Bay Area chapter is receiving a large shipment of drugs this evening at the warehouse they own in Oakland," he said.
"The Sons? Fucking bastards," one of my guys said.
"You know them?"
"Missed them a week back, they slipped away before we arrived. We're familiar with what they did in Florida," I said. "I'd love another shot at those sickos. How sure are you of the intelligence?"
"Very high confidence. The tips were credible and specific, and we've been able to confirm the ship and the container number that is involved. It is being transported from the docks to their warehouse right now, and the drugs will be transported out tonight. Your team is going to take them down after it arrives."
He had highlighted the building on the map; it was a typical small warehouse/office building, surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence and a small parking lot. There were eight bays on the loading dock, and two big doors for semi-trucks to drive inside to unload. He brought up a file with photographs. "One of my agents is maintaining surveillance on the target. He estimates there are between twelve and twenty Sons inside. Assume all are heavily armed and dangerous. Here's the warrant," he said as he handed it over.
Signed less than two hours ago, it was a high-risk warrant since armed resistance was expected. The warrant was to be served if the specified container arrived at the warehouse location. High-risk warrants were a specialty of SWAT teams, and we served these occasionally, but mostly when there were significant numbers of innocent civilians around. "What's the catch? The DEA has SWAT teams, and Oakland and San Francisco do too. Why bring my team way out here to make a drug bust?"
"The tipster also warned us that local law enforcement was compromised, including the DEA Director in San Francisco and senior people in Customs and local law enforcement. There's no telling how extensive the penetration by the Sons and their Cartel backers has gone; I couldn't pass the intel to them if I couldn't trust them. When I spoke to the DEA Director and Homeland Security this morning about it, they decided to bring in a team that could operate independently and hit hard. That's why you're here." He tossed a list of names on the table; my eyes bugged out when I read it. "In one hour, two MD500 helicopters from Task Force 160 equipped with FRIES will land next to your plane."
My eyebrow raised; Task Force 160 was the Army's elite Special Aviation Operations unit out of Kentucky. The helicopters were fast and quiet, and the Fast-Rope Insertion/Extraction System was perfect for landing six men on a rooftop in seconds. We'd trained with them a few months ago, and this gave me options.
We spent that hour going over the photographs, the floor plans, and the surrounding area. We were lucky in that the surrounding buildings would be deserted at the late hour, and it was a new moon. We would be able to take advantage of the darkness.
The helicopters landed, and the pilots came over and briefed while their birds were being fueled. A tour bus also pulled up; Frank had rented it with his credit card, telling the company it was taking a bachelor party group into town. I had to hand it to him; he'd kept things tight.
My plan was simple, and the eight men I was sending on the helicopter left with the pilots. The rest of us walked onto the tour bus. Frank had given the driver an extra five hundred to ignore what he saw and just drive; his radio had been disabled, and he'd turned over his cell phone. He didn't even tell the driver the destination; he just gave him directions.
We did our communications and weapons checks before we entered the industrial area. The bus stopped four times in the darkness, dropping off teams blocks away from the target. When they were all gone, I looked over at Frank while I watched the body cams of my team leaders on my laptop screen. "How bad do you think this will be?"
"They're armed heavily, violent and facing life in prison," he said. "If we have the element of surprise, it could go well." He left unsaid the other part.
One by one, the teams checked reported they were in position. The helicopters were circling over the bay, two minutes out. I did one last roll call.
"Sniper one, ready."
"Sniper two, ready.
"Sniper three, ready."
"Team Alpha, ready.
"Bravo ready."
"Charlie ready."
"Air One, ready."
"Air Two, ready."
