Safe Zone: A Novel Approach to the Drug War

By Thomas G. Blacklock

The premise of this work of fiction is that major Mexican drug traffickers can operate with impunity in Mexico enjoying the protection of the Mexican Government as they flood the United States with heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine and marijuana. The heroes of this work of fiction have likened the Mexican Government protection of drug traffickers to the protection the North Vietnamese Army and Viet Cong received from the governments of Cambodia and Laos during the Vietnamese War. As veterans of that war my heroes witnessed how these governments provided safe zones for the North Vietnamese Army and Viet Cong from the American Military and as Veteran DEA Special Agents can see how the same thing is happening in Mexico with major drug traffickers who have the financial means to buy off any government official. Using a Special Operations Team, originally assigned to Bolivia, to sneak into Mexico and do unilateral enforcement operations in Mexico my heroes not only hope to wreck havoc with the major traffickers but also hope to send a signal to those in the Mexican government who choose to protect these traffickers that they can not offer the traffickers a Safe Zone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 27, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469122977

Thomas G. Blacklock

About the Author Thomas (Tom) Blacklock was a U.S. Marine Vietnam Combat Veteran who went on to become a Special Agent and Supervisory Special Agent with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) retiring after thirty years of Federal Service.

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Copyright © 2007 by Thomas G. Blacklock.

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4257-6554-5

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                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-2297-7

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY OF

TERMS AND ACRONYMS

Dedication

This book is dedicated to those agents who now fight or

have valiantly fought the War and have made great personal sacrifices

to free our society of the scourge of illicit drugs.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge Susan Smith of The Wordsmith, my Copy Editor, writing companion and friend, for her superb efforts in editing this book. Her command of the English Language, sharp eyes in detecting my errors and her keen insight and recommendations to make this endeavor more readable are greatly appreciated.

I would also like to acknowledge the work of Gayelynn Narmore who graciously agreed to edit my attempts at Spanish. Her command of the Spanish language proved to be invaluable in making my Mexican and Colombian characters more believable

And finally I would like to acknowledge the loving support that I received from my wife which made my efforts to bring this book to fruition possible.

PROLOGUE

In the mid-to-late 1980s and early 1990s the Drug Enforcement Administration, the lead federal law enforcement agency charged with enforcing the federal narcotic laws, ran a Special Operations program called Snowcap. This program solicited volunteer agents; provided them with training in jungle warfare, special weapons, and the Spanish language; and inserted them into countries such as Bolivia and Peru where drug lords produced cocaine in jungle laboratories. Working with the host country’s military or national police, these Snowcap teams ventured into the jungles and helped destroy the labs that they uncovered.

The program met with some success but, of course, relied upon the host country’s military or national police for intelligence, cooperation, and/or support. In most poor South and Central American countries, as well as in Mexico, loyalties can be bought for relatively little money or by the fear of death. Thus, many agents saw their efforts in the host countries turn into drills in futility. As a result, many abandoned labs were hit, and frustrated agents frequently had to be reminded that they were guests of the host countries. Naturally, some successes were noted, especially when unilateral intelligence was developed and the locals were forced to act. Moreover, many agents distinguished themselves in a number of firefights with insurgent groups that protected the traffickers, such as the Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path. Eventually, however, a change in administration and in the leadership of DEA brought an end to this sometimes controversial program.

This change in administration also heralded a period that saw DEA struggling for its very existence. Some high-placed government officials thought that DEA should be disbanded and its authority, and more importantly, its billion-dollar annual budget transferred to other agencies. Competition rather than cooperation became the watch-word as federal agencies fought for statistics to prove their worth at the expense of other agencies. Moreover, these agencies expended many man-hours and budget dollars on simply trying to survive—tax dollars and manpower that could have been better used in the War on Drugs.

One of the major points that assured DEA of its future existence was a very active foreign operations program. Many host countries willingly accepted DEA agents when other federal agencies, especially those with foreign counterintelligence programs, were not so welcome. At the time, DEA had offices in approximately sixty-five foreign countries. The agents staffing these offices acted solely as advisors and, in most instances, did not participate in active enforcement operations. However, in some countries these advisory roles translated into limited enforcement tasks. More importantly, the agents in these host countries had both the ability and resources to actively collect drug intelligence. Their efforts allowed DEA and the United States government to compile intelligence about major drug cartels and organizations, ultimately leading to the demise of numerous major drug traffickers. For instance, the demise of Pablo Escobar, Carlos Lederher, and Manuel Noreiga was in good measure due to the diligent efforts of DEA. The intelligence compiled by DEA agents on these individuals was subsequently used in federal indictments in the United States. However, intelligence gathering also had a downside. Many know the story of Enrique Camarena, a DEA agent assigned to the Guadalajara office in Mexico. Kiki was tortured and murdered in Mexico when his intelligence-collecting efforts began to threaten those traffickers protected by corrupt Mexican government officials.

Today DEA still staffs foreign offices with agents in approximately eighty-five countries. These agents continue to advise the host countries on narcotic matters and to gather intelligence on drug trafficking and narco-terroristic activities.

CHAPTER 1

Denver, Colorado, September 27, 1995

Veteran DEA Special Agent Tom Blaine sat up in the large red leather chair facing the opulent wooden desk befitting the elevated status of Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge Sidney Krowell. Aw c’mon, Sid! You can’t be serious! snorted the agitated Blaine. My guys have been working this case for six months by ourselves, doing all the undercover work, and now you tell me that the Denver SWAT will hit and secure the house instead of us. Why should they get the honor of serving our federal search warrant?

Waving a single sheet of paper in Blaine’s direction, the slightly balding and portly Krowell responded, Tom, your own briefing sheet said that according to the undercover agents and informants, these mopes are armed to the teeth.

Sensing that his temper was about to get the best of him, Tom hesitated, took a breath, and said, With all due respect I know what the briefing sheet says, Sid. But so what? Ninety-five percent of the people we arrest have guns. We always find guns in crack houses, for Christ’s sake. I put the gun remarks in the briefing sheet to back up my request to authorize some of my agents to unblock their subguns and maybe—for just once—allow us the luxury of having automatic weapons available in case we need that kind of firepower. I sure didn’t mean that my group was incapable of serving the warrant or that we need an outside agency special weapons attack team to do our work.

There will be no unblocking of your submachine guns in this division, answered a now equally agitated Krowell. And, in fact, the boss has mandated that your agents not even carry them on this raid.

What? Tom snorted. Why the hell not?

The SAC is really concerned about innocent neighbors getting shot from errant rounds and the liability attached to that kind of action. She also pointed out that not all the members of your group have consistently qualified with the SMGs over the past year. And you know that it’s her policy that nobody will carry SMGs until everybody demonstrates a consistent proficiency with the weapon.

Jesus H. Christ, Sid. Tom attempted to keep his escalating temper under control. Yes, I have three agents in my group who have failed to qualify consistently—two females and one older male. All three have professed a dislike for the weapon, and to tell you the truth, I haven’t put any pressure on them to qualify. But I have seven other guys who have consistently qualified with the SMG. Four consistently score a perfect 300.

Tom, the guns are out. Your guys are not to carry their SMGS on this raid. Do I make myself clear? Krowell’s face and balding head reddened with anger as he gave Tom his order.

Tom stared wordlessly at Krowell for several moments. He finally composed himself and responded in a voice dripping with sarcasm, Crystal clear, Mr. Krowell.

As Tom arose to exit the office, Krowell attempted a more conciliatory tone. Tom, don’t be that way. The SAC has a good point. This particular crack house is in a residential neighborhood and… .

Krowell was quickly cut off by Blaine, who had almost made it to the door. Don’t you think that we took all that into consideration when we formulated our raid plan? I’ve done hundreds of these freaking warrants in my career and ain’t even come close to killing or injuring an innocent bystander. I’ll tell you what’s really going on here, Sid. Tom pointed his thumb in the direction of the office of the special agent-in charge and continued. Her majesty in there has made a sexual thing out of this issue. If the female agents can’t carry SMGs, then neither can the males. Everything she does has that kind of slant to it.

His face and bald pate again reddening with anger, Krowell said, Save your breath. Carrying SMGs on this operation is out. The SWAT will hit and secure the house for your group. End of discussion.

Well, that just plain sucks! Once again agent safety is taking a back seat for political correctness, this male verses female equal rights bullshit!

Objection noted, Krowell said. And you’d better watch yourself because you are bordering on insubordination. Understand? Now is there anything else you wish to discuss regarding the search warrant?

Yes, I guess there is. I know from prior experience that unless the Denver Police are involved in the case or it’s an emergency, the Denver SWAT team can’t help us before seven a.m. That’s when their regular shift begins. Of course, they’re always willing to come in earlier if we’re willing to pay for their overtime. I wanted to hit the house right at six a.m., which is the earliest a federal search warrant will allow. Unfortunately, the liberal federal magistrates in this district don’t share your concerns about our safety and won’t authorize night service or no-knock warrants. Can we pay the Denver guys a couple of hours of overtime if they ask?

We have no budget to pay for local’s overtime, Krowell answered, and I can’t believe they’d have the gall to ask, considering all the federal bucks that department gets. Is there a problem serving the warrant after seven a.m.?

In a voice once again filled with sarcasm, Tom replied, Oh, no real reason, except officer safety maybe. It’s been my limited experience over the past twenty-seven years that the earlier you hit them, the better chance you have of catching them in bed, which severely limits their response to a forced entry.

Go with seven a.m., Krowell ordered.

Yes, sir. An exasperated Tom abruptly left Krowell’s office. Still seething, he assembled a meeting of his enforcement group and gave them the bad news regarding the search warrant. Just as he anticipated, his young agents viewed the changes with general disdain.

Man, what the hell is going on in this division? Does the SAC really believe we’re as incompetent as her and her cronies with our firearms? one agent inquired. Another responded, Man, this really sucks. It’s going to be embarrassing as hell to sit back while the locals do our dirty work. Damn! Why do we even have SMGs if we can’t ever use them?

After allowing the agents to vent for several minutes, Tom said, All right, knock it off, guys. Unfortunately, current DEA policy allows the SAC to determine when and where automatic weapons can be used. I know how you feel, but the SAC has ruled, and that’s the end of it. But I’ll tell you what: My orders said that you can’t carry the subguns, but I wasn’t specifically told that we couldn’t have them readily available—if you get my drift. Tom winked at one of his senior agents as he delivered that final piece of information.

Following the meeting with his group, Tom and his case agent for this particular search warrant drove to the Denver police headquarters, where they briefed the SWAT lieutenant and sergeant who would be in charge of the team that would hit the house the next day. The residence in question, Tom began as he passed out photographs and a scaled drawing, is a single-story, wood-framed bungalow. It’s one of those small types of houses built after World War II. A front porch runs almost the length of the front of the house and stands about two feet off the ground. Several concrete steps lead to the middle of the porch. The main entrance is in the center of the front of the house, and there are single windows on each side of the front door. Using the scaled drawing, Tom pointed to the window on the right side of the door as one faced the house. According to the informant, this window here is a living room window, and the window on the other side of the main entrance is a bedroom window. Turning to a large photograph of the front of the house, he continued, There are iron bars on the windows, and there’s a heavy steel mesh door over a solid wood door at the main entrance. What I had planned to do after knocking and notice was… .

Uh, excuse me, Blaine, interrupted the heavily muscled lieutenant, whose tight grey Denver PD t-shirt accentuated his enormous biceps. We’ve done a lot of dynamic entries on these types of residences, and we know how to overcome physical barriers. Thank you. Then realizing what else Blaine had said, he blurted, Wait one second. Did you say ‘knock and notice’?

Yes, sir. Your men will have to announce their presence and then wait a reasonable time for someone to open the door.

You’ve gotta be kidding! replied the lieutenant in a tone reflecting more than mild surprise. How come this isn’t a ‘no-knock’ warrant?

Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible for us to get a ‘no-knock’ or nighttime service search warrant in this federal district. I guess the liberal judges here would rather have a cop shot than, heaven forbid, have us infringe on some scumbag drug dealer’s rights to be secure in his home, Tom replied.

Jesus, we could be sitting targets on that porch while we stand there knocking and noticing and waiting for somebody to answer the fucking door. I’ve never heard of a more asinine thing. We always have a ‘no-knock’ state warrant, ranted the lieutenant.

Listen, lieutenant, if you feel it’s too dangerous for your team, I could go to another department and federally deputize their officers so that they could come into this city and assist us. Adams County has a good… .

That won’t be necessary, the SWAT lieutenant interrupted. This is Denver, and the Denver SWAT will hit the house. We’ll devise a plan that will include speed, surprise, and a diversion to minimize our exposure. What about weapons?

Our informants and our undercover agents have only seen semi-automatic pistols in the residence. But these guys are bad dudes. They’re Crips, mostly fugitives from East LA gangs, so I wouldn’t rule out automatic weapons.

How many people can we expect to encounter in the residence? asked the SWAT lieutenant.

We know that a male and a female reside there, but there always were four or five young black males hanging around when we were in the house, replied Tom.

Okay, Blaine. We’ll devise a plan to hit the crack house. We’ll meet you and your guys at District Two headquarters at six thirty tomorrow morning, advised the lieutenant.

See you then, Tom said.

CHAPTER 2

Denver, Colorado, September 28, 1995

A slight fall nip chilled the early morning air the next day when Tom’s group met with the Denver SWAT in the parking lot of the District Two headquarters. The single-story government grey concrete block police building, located in northeast Denver, was adjacent to a predominantly black suburb known as Five Points. As the lieutenant briefed his team on their plan of attack on the crack house, Tom felt a bad premonition developing, and his gut instincts told him that there would be problems in effecting entry into this particular house. Tom was surprised that the SWAT had not made plans, other than to carry a hooligan, a large pry bar, to overcome the steel mesh door. His original plan had been to have a tow truck with a cable and winch available. His men would deliver the official knock and notice and simultaneously jerk the steel mesh door off the frame, a technique that Tom had quite successfully employed several times. It had been his experience that problems occurred when entry was delayed for even a few minutes. It appeared to Tom that the SWAT’s main attack plan was to stun the occupants of the house with flash-bang grenades long enough for the team to gain entry and neutralize any resistance inside the house. While Tom had problems with the SWAT’s plan, the lieutenant’s rebuke when he had attempted to suggest a quick entry plan yesterday still rang in his ears, and Tom elected to remain silent—a decision he would soon regret.

After hearing the SWAT’s plans, Tom told his group of eight agents that they would take up defensive positions from behind their cars, which they would park on the street at forty-five degree angles to the residence on the left and right side of the front of the house once the SWAT had moved into attack position. He also cautioned his agents about watching their fields of fire. Just prior to moving to the staging area a block down the street from the crack house, Tom opened the trunk of his government vehicle and removed two large screwdrivers, which he stuck in the back of his pistol belt.

The SWAT moved to the staging area in their black armored panel van. Tom’s group followed in four cars, each carrying two agents. Precisely at seven a.m., the SWAT, still followed by Tom and his agents, edged toward the crack house. As they moved into position, Tom began to sense the old familiar roller coaster feeling of apprehension followed by a surge of adrenalin—the feeling that had become all too familiar in his long career as an agent. An expression uttered by Danny Glover, playing the role of Sergeant Murtaugh in the movie Lethal Weapon, crossed his mind. Tom found himself silently agreeing with Murtaugh’s assessment of himself: I’m too old for this shit.

The van carrying the SWAT moved to a position to the left front of the target house, and the ten-man team piled out and immediately took up their assigned positions. Using his car radio, Tom directed his team into position on the street. Two cars were to take up a position to the right front of the house and another two cars to the left front of the house. Again Tom cautioned the agents about their fields of fire.

The early morning stillness of the quiet residential neighborhood was interrupted by the sound of two exploding flash-bang grenades as they were thrown at the front window of the house. One made its way into the house; the other landed on the porch just below the window. The six-officer entry team then stormed the porch while the remaining four SWAT officers provided cover from the left and right front of the house. Police officers with a search warrant demanding entry! barked the team’s sergeant, while another officer began to pry open the steel mesh door with the hooligan.

As Tom watched the events unfold in front of him from a position behind his vehicle, he sensed that the entry was taking too long and commented aloud to no one in particular, Too much time. He became even more apprehensive upon seeing that the SWAT officer with the hooligan was having a difficult time prying the steel mesh door open. Suddenly, the calm of the sleepy neighborhood was shattered a second time as a fusillade of automatic weapons fire erupted from within the house. As chips of wood exploded outward from the house, Tom recognized the distinctive sound of an AK-47 and several other automatic weapons, either TEC-9s or MAC-10s. With the rounds cracking above his head, Tom dropped behind his vehicle for cover. His heart pounding, he low-crawled along the pavement and positioned himself behind a wheel to watch the house in relative safety.

To his shock and dismay, Tom saw that the initial fusillade had caught the entry team on the porch of the house head on. Two officers, apparently shot, lay on the porch, and another was sprawled on the ground. The three other officers, who also appeared to be wounded, were retreating for better cover, leaving the three downed men where they lay. The remaining four SWAT officers were busy providing cover fire for the retreating entry team.

Tom instantly realized that the situation was out of control and that nobody in authority from the SWAT appeared to be taking charge. His psyche quickly underwent a metamorphosis as Tom switched from DEA group supervisor to ex-Marine sergeant and Vietnam combat veteran. Knowing what had to be done, he removed the two screwdrivers from his pistol belt and gave one to the agent who had taken cover at the opposite end of Tom’s vehicle. Get the subguns out of the cars and unblock them, he barked. Tom low-crawled to the opposite end of the car and yelled to the agents behind the next car. Getting their attention over the din of the gunshots inside and outside the house, he threw them the second screwdriver. As the cacophony of the automatic weapons fire hit a crescendo, Tom continued to yell and use hand signals as he ordered his agents to retrieve their subguns, unblock them, and be prepared on his command to provide covering fire.

As the agents retrieved their weapons from their cars and began to remove the blocks to convert them to automatic weapons, Tom crawled and dashed from car to car. With bullets raging overhead, he worked his way to the SWAT van parked to the left of the residence. The SWAT member at the van advised him that both the sergeant and the lieutenant were down and that he had radioed for backup. Tom asked, What about the guys on the porch? We can’t just leave them there.

The SWAT member responded, We’ll formulate a plan when backup arrives.

Bullshit! Tom spat. They might be alive, and we need to get them to cover immediately. Hell, they could bleed out while we’re waiting for backup!

What do you suggest? asked the SWAT member.

My guys are unblocking their SMGs right now, and as soon as four guns can go automatic we’ll lay down a barrage of covering fire to the front of the house. You and I will then move from here using available cover. I’ll signal my guys to shift their fire away from us to the far side of the house long enough for you and me to crawl to the downed officers. We’ll use the porch as cover. I’ll have the covering fire cease long enough for us to drag the two officers off the porch and to the ground. This will afford them protection from any rounds coming out of the house. Then my guys will provide covering fire while we drag the downed guys out of there. Are there ambulances en route?

I don’t know, replied the SWAT member. I just called for backup and said we had officers down.

Make sure your dispatch knows the situation. Be ready to go in three minutes!

Don’t you think we should wait for backup?

Listen, if you don’t want to help me I’ll take my guys, but those are your team members lying there. I’m sure every minute counts to them.

Yeah, I guess you’re right, the SWAT member replied, feeling chastised. I’ll be ready in three minutes.

Tom’s initial fear and shock was replaced with a relative calm reminiscent of the stillness he had often felt long ago in the midst of jungle firefights. He dashed back to the cover of the cars and individually advised each of his agents of the rescue plan. Remember—keep your rounds up and watch your fields of fire. I don’t want any of you clowns shooting me.

Tom then dashed back to the SWAT van where he saw that another slightly wounded SWAT member had joined the first one, giving him an additional man to use in the rescue attempt. After instructing the two SWAT members as to who would go for which downed officer, Tom signaled his group to commence firing. The sound of four Colt 9MM SMGs firing simultaneously raised the din of the battle even louder, and Tom’s mind registered deja vu as it quickly flashed back to long-ago scenes of Vietnam. Tom’s agents fired into the house, and chips of wood exploded as the bullets struck their marks. Tom sensed that the rounds exiting the house were decreasing in number, and followed by the two SWAT members, he moved from covered position to covered position, making his careful way toward the wounded officers. His sense of fear and apprehension disappeared and was replaced by a cool and calm feeling that reminded him of a dark night some twenty years earlier in a Southeast Asian jungle. There, as a young Marine corporal, he had taken matters into his own hands when nobody else seemed to want to, and he had been awarded the Navy Cross for his heroic actions. Like that night in a far-off jungle, he knew what had to be done on this early morning in a sleepy Denver suburb.

Upon Tom’s signal, his group switched their automatic weapons to a semi-automatic mode and fired toward the right side of the house, away from Tom’s three-man rescue team. With his heart pounding loudly in his head, Tom led the two SWAT members as they dashed and low-crawled the last twenty-five yards to the left side of the porch. They dropped to their bellies and low-crawled to the center of the house, using the two-foot-high porch as cover. Periodic bursts of automatic weapons fire still issued from within the house, and Tom had the strange sensation that he was on a rifle range, positioned in the butts area with the bullets passing six feet above his head as they struck or missed their targets. He noted that the automatic weapons fire from the house was answered by semi-automatic weapons fire from his agents and the remaining SWAT members.

As Tom edged up to the porch near one of the downed officers, he glimpsed a shadow inside the house in the corner of the window. Overcoming a sudden icy cold chill that he recognized as fear, Tom rose to his knees and emptied an eight-round magazine from his Smith and Wesson .45 caliber pistol at the shadow and immediately dropped back to his belly. He quickly ejected the spent magazine and inserted a fully loaded one. Seeing him shoot at the window, his agents took the window under fire as soon as Tom dropped down.

When the rain of bullets overhead subsided, Tom again rose to his knees, pointed his Smith and Wesson at the window, and emptied another eight-round magazine into the house. As he grabbed the downed officer and pulled him off the porch at the same time, Tom was amazed at how light the man was and then quickly realized that his surging adrenalin was working again. Using the porch as cover from the bullets exiting the house, Tom rolled the officer over. He immediately saw that the poor bastard’s armored vest had not done its job and he had taken several rounds in the chest. However, a wound just above his left eye appeared to be the fatal shot. Tom could feel no pulse from the carotid artery, so he pushed the SWAT officer’s body as close to the porch as possible to prevent further damage. He then crawled to the other two SWAT officers. They had successfully pulled the other downed officer on the porch to the ground at the same time Tom had acted. The officer was still alive but in shock from several wounds to the chest area.

As Tom instructed the two SWAT members to drag the wounded officer to safety, the front door of the house clanged opened. A large black man, leaking blood from several wounds to his upper body and dressed only in undershorts and carrying an AK-47, came loping out onto the porch, screaming like a madman. Die, you motherfucking honky pigs! He began firing, wildly spraying bullets everywhere. Immediately his shots were answered by a tremendous volley from Tom’s agents, who had a better angle than the SWAT members. As he crawled to the third downed officer, the sergeant, out of the corner of his eye Tom saw the black man’s body spasmodically jerk from the impact of the agents’ bullets. His bullet-ridden body finally fell over backwards. His finger stuck on the trigger, and the weapon discharged its ammunition wildly into the early morning sky until the magazine was empty.

As Tom reached the downed sergeant, he realized that the fire emanating from within the house had all but subsided. He saw that the sergeant’s vest had offered little to no protection from what Tom guessed were AK-47 rounds. It was apparent that, like the first officer, the sergeant had either died instantly or had bled to death waiting to be rescued.

Once behind the safe confines of the SWAT van, Tom conferred with the wounded lieutenant, who was propped up against the van. Even though he had lost a substantial amount of blood and was holding bandages to wounds in his hip and left arm, the lieutenant was coherent enough to discuss the situation with Tom. They agreed that at this point the safest course of action was to wait for reinforcements before attempting to enter and clear the house. With the sounds of sirens signaling the advent of help ringing in his ears, Tom made his way back to the DEA vehicles to check on his agents.

As he approached his first car, he heard one of his agents shout from behind a more distant car, Come out with your hands up! Tom glanced towards the house and saw a white towel being waved as a signal of surrender from the open front door. Slowly, a single black male holding a bloodied white towel to his upper torso exited the house and yelled, Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Stumbling from the porch, he fell to the ground and continued shouting, I’m hit bad, I’m dying. Help me, I’m dying.

Not wanting to expose himself any further, Tom yelled, Get up, asshole, and walk this way. Crawl if you have to. Or just lay there and die quietly. The man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, slowly rose to a half crouch and stumbled barefooted towards the car that Tom was using for cover. When he was adjacent to the trunk, Tom and one of the agents reached up from the protection of the car, grabbed the man, and pulled him to the ground behind the car, where he yelped and continued to whimper, I’m dying, man. Oh, God, I’m dying.

An unsympathetic Tom snapped, Listen, asshole, I’ll kill you myself right here and now if you don’t tell me who’s left in the house.

As he was being handcuffed, the man haltingly stated, Everybody’s shot between apparent bolts of pain. He whimpered again that he was dying and pleaded with Tom and the agents to save him.

By the time the first backup units arrived on the scene, the shooting from within the house had ceased altogether and no movement could be detected. A serene peace once again settled over the neighborhood. Quickly, more and more backup cars arrived on the scene, and it became apparent that the early morning battle was over. A command level officer who had arrived with the first cars took charge and gave orders to teargas the house. Once that was accomplished, a dozen officers cleared the house without further incident. Inside they found seven black males in their late teens or early twenties and one female in her early twenties. Five of the males and the female were dead from numerous gunshot wounds, and the two remaining males were seriously injured. One of the dead males was found next to the front window, and a subsequent autopsy would reveal that he had five .45-caliber slugs in his upper torso. When he learned the autopsy results months later, Tom was heard to comment, Man, that’s pretty poor shooting—only five out of my sixteen shots hit the target.

The clearing officers also discovered that everyone in the house had been armed with an automatic weapon, either an AK-47 or a TEC-9. Piles of spent ammunition cluttered the inside of the house. They found twenty pounds of crack cocaine and $200,000 in cash, considerably more dope and money than Tom and his case agent had anticipated.

When it was safe to do so, Tom surveyed the damage. The front of the wood-framed house was pockmarked with thousands of bullet holes. Tom quickly determined that none of his agents had been hit by bullets but several sustained scratches from glass and metal splinters caused by bullets striking the cars they had used as cover. All four of the DEA vehicles had been hit by numerous rounds, and two would not start. Crap, Tom said. Somebody’s got a lot of paperwork to do with the damage to these cars.

Moving slowly through the haze of cordite produced by the large volume of gunfire, Tom rounded up his group and took them across the street to a neighboring house, where they sat on the grass under a large maple tree. While paramedics attended to the minor wounds of his agents, Tom surveyed his men. Although nobody was seriously physically hurt, Tom sensed that two of the younger agents had been unnerved by this episode. The remaining five were surprisingly subdued. As he and his team awaited the inevitable arrival of his superiors and a DEA trauma team, Tom heard a male voice inquire, Where’s Agent Blaine?

Here, Tom half shouted as he started to rise to his feet. Coming towards him were several Denver PD command level officers. Tom recognized the one with several stars on his collar as the usually flamboyant chief of police.

Mr. Blaine, are your men okay?

Yes, sir. We’re fine, Tom replied.

Mr. Blaine, I’ve been told that you were pretty heroic today in attempting to save the lives of my officers.

We couldn’t just leave them lying there, sir.

Yes, I agree, replied the chief while attempting to stifle his emotions. Mustering up some resolve, he continued, Well, I certainly want to thank you for your efforts, and I intend to call John Conway, your administrator in Washington, myself and tell him about your heroic actions here today. Please accept my personal thanks for your efforts, Mr. Blaine.

Chief, no thanks are necessary. We were just doing what had to be done in a very bad situation. The chief nodded, shook Tom’s hand, and then walked back to the SWAT van where members of the press were staging for an interview.

The next group of individuals that Tom saw approaching included SAC Marsha Grant, accompanied by ASAC Sidney Krowell and the other ASAC assigned to the Denver office. Grant, who was attired in a black DEA raid jacket, spoke first. Is everyone okay?

Tom forced himself to reply in a civil tone but didn’t trust himself to give more than a minimal answer. Yes, ma’am. A long, uncomfortable silence punctuated only by the sounds of birds chirping in the nearby trees followed his curt response. At a loss for words and feeling uncomfortable with the dead silence, Grant turned around, seemingly to survey the scene. Seeing the chief of police getting ready for the press conference, Grant excused herself and went to confer with him, leaving ASAC Krowell and the other ASAC with Tom and his group.

Krowell, who appeared to be somewhat unnerved by the scene, asked, What’s the count, Tom?

Staring at Krowell, Tom thought, Shit, this is just like Vietnam all over again. The shooting has barely ceased, and this rear-echelon hump wants a body count. Tom attempted to maintain his composure and answered, Two cops dead and three wounded. Six bad guys and one very bad lady dead and three more bad guys wounded. Krowell just shook his head almost in disbelief. Boss, Tom continued as he grabbed Krowell’s arm and moved him out of earshot of his agents, I know this is probably not the best time or place for this, but I want you to know that I hold you and Grant personally responsible for this.

Tom, I… .

Tom cut the ASAC’s words off before he could finish his sentence. With all due respect, Sid—shut up! Nothing you two can ever say will change my mind. Feeling himself begin to shake with an anger bordering on rage, Tom forced himself to walk away from Krowell before he said or did anything that he would regret later. A very contrite Krowell was left standing with the other ASAC, who had remained mute during this exchange, and watched Tom as he walked back to his group of agents.

Tom made the national news that evening. When the shooting started, a local television crew had been filming an exposé on the crack dealing near a junior high school several blocks away. By utilizing the police scanner that all news media crews seem to posses, they identified the address of the shooting and arrived on the scene just as Tom was marshalling the SWAT members to rescue the downed officers. The video camera was running as Tom and the two SWAT officers attempted to recover the wounded officers. As Tom, attired in his black DEA raid jacket and baseball cap, reared up on his knees, fired his .45 into the window of the house, and dragged the downed officer from the porch, a close-up side profile of him made it obvious to all who knew him that it was, indeed, Tom Blaine.

A subsequent joint investigation by DEA’s Office of Professional Responsibility and the Denver PD Officer Involved Shooting Team determined that two of the black males who had been killed during the gun battle were 28th Street Crips gang members from East LA. Wanted for killing a Los Angeles County deputy sheriff, they were transiting Denver en route to St. Louis. During telephone conversations which were recorded by an FBI wiretap, the gangsters had openly professed to associates that they would never be taken alive. In another separate public integrity investigation conducted months after the shooting, the FBI also determined that the gangsters in the house had been tipped off about the warrant by a clerk in the District Court who had observed the supposedly sealed warrant lying on her supervisor’s desk. In essence, the investigative efforts of all the agencies concluded that the SWAT and DEA had been ambushed and no prior planning could have prevented the tragic outcome.

Shortly after this raging and violent gun battle in a usually quiet Denver suburb, events unfolding eighteen hundred miles to the east would have a profound effect on Tom Blaine.

CHAPTER 3

Main Justice Building, Washington, D.C., September 28, 1995

Man, she is one butt-ugly woman. She’s even uglier than I remember, thought a distracted Roger Grey as he stared at the profile of Marilyn Thomas, who was seated at the far end of the large conference table. But then the last time that I saw her was what? Eleven, maybe twelve years ago? At least back then when she was the District Attorney of Cook County, she attempted to tone down her homely looks with cosmetics and a hairstyle that didn’t make her resemble a cornfield scarecrow. Now, as the Attorney General of the United States, it seems like she’s given up on her looks completely. And she’s gained a considerable amount of weight.

Roger then recalled that his last meeting with Marilyn Thomas had been a very unpleasant affair during which Thomas, serving as the Chicago District Attorney, had warned him and his supervisors that if he were involved in one more shooting in the state of Illinois, she would personally seek a criminal civil rights indictment against him. She had strongly suggested that the Drug Enforcement Administration consider transferring Roger to a desk job, where he would be a little less dangerous to the public.

At the time of this warning, he had been very angry with her. Now, keeping his eyes focused on Thomas, he thought about the events that had lead to the meeting. Sure—his enforcement group had been involved in seven shootings during the preceding two years, and, yes, he had personally shot and killed two miscreants himself. But his group had been very active then, and as their supervisor, he felt that it was his role to be with them on the street whenever there was the potential for violence. Hell, hadn’t he been cleared of the shootings by DEA’s Office of Professional Responsibility? And hadn’t he successfully defended his actions in two federal civil suits brought by relatives of the dead crooks? Oh, well, he concluded to himself, Thomas’s ultimatum had worked to his advantage. He had been transferred to DEA Headquarters, where with some help from influential friends on the career board and a change in administration, he had ultimately risen to his current position as the Chief of Special Operations.

As Roger’s mind continued to wander, he considered why he was in attendance today. He had accompanied Ray Perkins, the assistant administrator and the number two man in DEA, to this high-level meeting which Thomas, herself, had convened to discuss the ever-increasing amount of illegal drugs traversing the Southwest border from Mexico into the United States and the resulting deteriorating relationship between the two governments. Roger noted that several members of Thomas’s staff and high-level executives from most of the federal law enforcement agencies that had a drug enforcement responsibility were also in attendance.

At first Roger had been deeply engrossed in the meeting, but his mind soon began to wander when it became obvious that nobody wanted to discuss the real reasons for the tremendous amount of drugs entering the United States from Mexico. He sat and silently considered his own thoughts. None of these Senior Executive Service types have the guts to tell the AG the truth—that the real reason our efforts to keep drugs from entering the United States from Mexico is that the current administration has never really placed an emphasis on drug enforcement. In fact, Roger had often likened the administration’s feeble efforts to control drug trafficking to a crew member of the Titanic attempting to bail the stricken ship with a small bucket. An admitted dope-smoking, draft-dodging liberal led the current administration, and he had surrounded himself with staffers who insisted that their youthful use of drugs was acceptable. Roger felt that the administration’s attitude tacitly sent a signal to the youth of America that drug use was a rite of passage. Consequently, drug use among teenagers had risen dramatically, and the Latin American drug traffickers had seized upon this newfound interest and had begun to increase the production of old drugs and create new ones to meet this demand.

And, of course, Roger continued to think while others spoke, nobody wants to tell her that the North American Free Trade Agreement—or NAFTA, as it’s called—passed by this administration and a liberal Congress, has so reduced restrictions on imports between Mexico and the United States that the poor U.S. Customs guys along the southwest border are totally overwhelmed. They can’t even begin to contend with the increased volume of traffic, and so now, instead of cocaine and other drugs entering the country in pound quantities, the traffickers hide it in the commercial traffic and it’s coming in by the ton. And naturally, none of these SESers want to tell her that the Mexican government is only giving lip service to the attempts to stem the flow of drugs through their country to the United States. Nobody wants to say that their government is still full of corruption and openly allows several major Mexican trafficking organizations to operate with impunity.

As he sat there contemplating these thoughts, he suddenly realized that the group’s attention was focused on him, and he heard Ray Perkins say, Roger, earth to Roger. Are you with us?

Oh, excuse me, Roger apologized. I was deep in thought, I guess, he said in response to the slight laughs from the other attendees and the icy glare from Thomas.

Roger, Perkins continued, please explain our Snowcap concept to these folks.

Uh, sure, boss. And again—sorry about my mind wandering. Choosing to address Marilyn Thomas directly, he began his explanation. Madam Attorney General, in 1983 we began a program in DEA called ‘Operation Snowcap.’ What this program entailed was sending teams of special agent personnel into several South American countries, primarily Bolivia and Peru. The agents were all trained in jungle warfare by the U.S. Army Ranger School and also received instruction in the Spanish language. The teams went into each country only with that country’s permission, and with the assistance of that country’s national police or army, the Snowcap teams conducted search-and-destroy missions targeting the cocaine-producing labs located in remote jungle areas. At first the program was only marginally a success, and just as we really began to win the support of the host police or army, the program was curtailed.

And why was it curtailed, Mr. Grey? inquired the Attorney General.

Budgetary constraints and a need to focus our resources more on domestic violence, which, as everyone present knows, is drug-driven, Roger replied, stopping short of telling the AG what he perceived as the real reasons for its curtailment. The truth was that the new DEA administrator appointed by the president two years earlier had come to the job with a very narrow focus regarding drugs and, as a consequence, he had all but abrogated DEA’s international responsibilities in favor of domestic enforcement operations, which many in DEA management felt were better left to the local police.

I am told that you’re working on a plan to restart the Snowcap program. Is that correct? Thomas asked.

Yes, ma’am. We’re contemplating sending several teams to Peru and Bolivia for one year, beginning in January or February of 1996. Of course, that’s providing we can find the resources for the program, answered Roger.

"Say, didn’t I see an article in the Post last Sunday about the Snowcap program? asked one of the FBI agents. As I recall, it was quite critical of DEA for stopping the program."

Ray Perkins chose to answer the question. Yes, there was an article, and it was rather critical because we stopped the program. But you must understand that both Bolivia and Peru lost quite a bit of foreign aid that was tied to the Snowcap program, and they’ve gotten the ears of several influential members of Congress through lobbyists here in D.C. That’s where the criticism originates.

I see, replied the FBI executive.

Attorney General Thomas looked around the table at the conference participants and asked, Well, does anyone else have any suggestions about how we can stop the flow of drugs into this country other than what we’ve already discussed?

After several minutes of silence, and when it became obvious that nobody had anything further to add, Roger sat up in his chair, looked in the direction of the Attorney General, and said, Maybe it’s about time that we sent a signal to the Mexican government that we will no longer tolerate their actions—or more appropriately, their inactions—regarding major dug traffickers who operate with impunity in Mexico.

And Mr. Grey, how would you propose that we send such a signal? Attorney General Thomas asked as she shifted in her chair to get a better look at Roger.

Looking directly at the AG, Roger replied, We could send agents into Mexico to take unilateral enforcement action against these traffickers.

The Mexican government would never approve of that, Thomas replied, waving her hand in a dismissive manner.

Then we wouldn’t ask for their approval, Roger quickly replied. We’d just do it. His answer momentarily stunned most of the conference participants, particularly the Attorney General, whose face quickly contorted in anger as she slowly began to sit upright in her chair. When she reached a full upright position, she glared at Roger, and struggling to keep her emotions in check, she began, You certainly can’t be serious, Grey. What you’re proposing could be considered an act of war.

I’m deadly serious, Madam Attorney General. We are involved in a war, and just like the Vietnam War, we’re going to lose if we let the politicians dictate our every move. And by… .

Stop it! interrupted the Attorney General in a harsh tone. I will hear no more talk of such a plan. Pointing her finger directly at Roger, she continued, "As long as I’m the Attorney General of the United States, no federal agents of this government will ever conduct covert unilateral enforcement actions in Mexico. Do I make myself clear?"

Yes ma’am, Roger replied. As the Attorney General looked from Roger to the other conferees for agreement, several of them echoed his answer.

Angry with Roger for ending her conference on a sour note and partially embarrassed by her loss of temper, Attorney General Thomas attempted to regain her grace with her final words. I want to thank you all for coming, she said with a fixed smile, "and will plan on seeing you next week at