Black-Haired Internal Revenue Service SWAT Agent - Chapter 339



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Side Story 45: Jungle Battle

Salvatore’s cocaine processing plants were built to the northwest, north, and east around his fortified headquarters.

And the power plants of each plant, the camp of some 160 cartel troops, and the fuel storage for various mobile equipment were located between the Santa Rita River and the headquarters.

But just minutes ago, a massive explosion shook the ground at a site where hundreds of barrels of fuel were stored.

Salvatore had an intuition immediately after the explosion that the cause of the explosion was not a simple accident such as the mistake of his subordinates, but rather an external factor.

The external factor that he and Kelton had discussed earlier in the evening was the gringos coming up from downriver.

Before he could call Kelton on his satellite phone, he called Salvatore first.

Salvatore poured out his thoughts before Kelton could say anything.

“Roger, where are you now? Those damn Gringos aren’t here to rescue that CIA guy, they’re here to try and re-attempt a mission that the CIA guy failed to accomplish. We need to get our troops back here, immediately. Secure our factories!”

“You’ll have to check that, Signor.”

Salvatore snorted at those words and then replied:

“Mierda! Kelton, if you were here now and saw what I’m seeing, you wouldn’t be able to say that! Quick, we need to get all our kids down here and protect the factories! Catching that damn CIA guy is the next thing!”

Salvatore urged Kelton, gazing across the volcanic-like forest to the southeast.

Flames and smoke rose tens of meters high and spread across the area.

Even now, whenever a fuel tank exploded, the sound echoed and subordinates with flashlights moved busily around the headquarters.

Kelton spoke again.

“Signor! What they’re after is secondary. First, take shelter there. They destroyed the fuel depot to bring in government helicopter patrols to the area. While our troops are stuck there defending the factories, we can attempt to rescue the CIA guy.”

Salvatore felt a brief sympathy for those words.

But if Kelton was right, then the cartel mercenaries should be back here even sooner.

Because protecting the factories from the Colombian military was a much more important issue than hunting down CIA agents.

Salvatore took a deep breath and spoke to him again.

“Mr. Kelton! Return the main force here immediately and secure the factories, then deal with the next problem. For now, I will also leave for a moment as you said.”

“Understood, Signor. I will have the main force return with the helicopters and assault boats.”

As soon as Salvatore hung up the phone, three of Kelton’s mercenaries burst through the office door.

They approached Salvatore and had him wear a bulletproof plate carrier and even a bulletproof helmet.

Soon, they evacuated the ruler of the Frontino Jungle and explosions began to ring out from outside the building again.

After we headed upriver in our rubber dinghy, the thugs’ fuel tank exploded.

The fuel storage facility, as large as a Walmart building, was built into a bushy area directly connected to the dock.

In addition to the refueling facilities for military boats, supply ships, and vehicles of various sizes, there was a high hill of fuel drums for storage, the size of which alone gave an idea of ​​the scale of the cartel stronghold in the area.

One, it only took two 2-pound blocks of C4 to turn the place into a Stone Age place.

The rest was because the entire facility was destroyed when gasoline cans exploded in a chain reaction.

No, the place wasn’t just destroyed, there was a huge explosion so huge that it changed the terrain of the area.

Naturally, the shock wave when the entire fuel tank exploded was so enormous that dozens of fish with burst bladders continued to float up from the water near us.

Leaving that hell behind, we headed north on our Zodiac inflatable boat at top speed.

Of course, I headed there anyway, knowing full well that the area north of the river was teeming with cartel mercenaries looking for Trevor Miller.

In front of our rubber boat, a reconnaissance drone the size of a large pizza, flown by Strauss, is filming the area ahead of us and transmitting it in real time.

The drone’s advance reconnaissance will likely evade the cartel forces returning to the cocaine plant, but who knows if things will turn out that way.

The cartel kids are kids, but if the Colombian military helicopter patrol that we want to use comes down the river from the north or northwest instead of the south, we might get destroyed first.

According to Team Leader Decker’s plan, the Colombian military must fly to the site of the explosion and fire and have a friendly conversation with the cartel forces to rescue Sergeant Trevor Miller. Will things actually go that way?

Even at the point where we fully revealed our presence to the cartel, we were left with the unfortunate situation of not being able to request firepower or troop support from the Colombian military in relation to rescuing Agent Miller.

Thinking back now, it seems a bit pathetic that we, wearing the uniforms stripped from the corpses of cartel mercenaries, managed to get past the reconnaissance drones they had sent down and the guards at the fuel storage dock.

One, all of that was just a warm-up before the actual game.

From now on, it’s like the game really starts.

Team Leader Decker occasionally pulls out the satellite cell phone that is stored in the magazine compartment of his plate carrier to check for any contact from Miller.

Soto, who holds the motor handle of the rubber boat and steers the boat, keeps an eye on Mr. Decker sitting next to me.

Will we be able to rescue Sergeant Miller safely from this huge mess?

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I wonder if that gentleman is still alive?

As I was thinking about that, I suddenly remembered the time I first met my sweet, super-strong girlfriend during the joint IRS-CBP operation where we arrested her.

Sergeant Miller uncuffed himself without our crew knowing and dove into the river hundreds of meters below.

Even in such a situation, Trevor Miller, who survived, begins to think that maybe, no, definitely, he is alive.

And inside the burning mosques of Mosul, the old man who risked his life to save dozens of innocent civilians seemed unlikely to meet his end brutally murdered by the evil cartel.

After thinking about that, I prayed for Miller’s safe return.

I considered returning alive a secondary issue, and prayed only for Trevor Miller’s survival.

Kenton flew south with his mercenaries, known as the ‘Devils of Frontino’, in two Jet Ranger helicopters.

We flew at high speed over the dense jungle terrain that would take a day and a half to cover on foot, arriving at the skies near the fuel depot in about 20 minutes.

“Howley Sheep!”

But the scene of the accident, illuminated by the huge flames rising from the fuel storage facility, was exactly what he had feared.

Something huge and black, with no navigation lights on, was circling the fuel storage area, all of them spewing small fireballs towards the ground.

Three Colombian Army Black Hawk helicopters circled the fire scene, firing machine guns at cartel mercenaries on the ground and in the river.

For years, Kelton shook his head at the prospect of government hunters equipped with infrared searchlights and other night-time detection equipment finally locating the cartel stronghold they had been searching for.

The American-made Black Hawk helicopters, which are impervious to most rifle bullets, flew in circles, biting each other’s tails, to provide cover.

Then, the assault troops and M240 machine gunners, sitting with their legs out on either side of the aircraft, opened concentrated fire on the ground.

Rather than cowering as the six M240 machine guns rained tracer rounds down on the ground, Kelton and his mercenaries prepared for battle.

“Peter, Jackson! And Thorn and Muhammad, get your Fifty Calibers ready and your Pikes! We’re going to give them a taste of the hot stuff in this area!”

Behind Kelton, who was piloting the helicopter, two mercenaries extended their sniper rifles and grenade launchers out of the cabin.

On Jet Ranger #2, mercenaries with identical firearms prepared to fire.

Kelton and the other Jet Ranger entered hover mode at a distance of about 200 meters, without approaching the fuel storage area.

Soon, the Jet Ranger helicopters began to lower their altitude, stopping their descent just above the treetops.

All of Kelton’s helicopters also had their navigation lights turned off, and there was no lighting inside the aircraft.

Because the Black Hawk helicopters that were raining bullets down on the fuel storage area were unaware of their presence or what was about to happen to them.

“Beatle Two (Beatle 2: Jet Ranger number 2) gunners ready to fire! Awaiting your signal, Beetle One (Kelton’s Jet Ranger helicopter)!”

Kelton watched the Black Hawk helicopters’ turn angles through his night vision goggles.

He then gave instructions to the gunners waiting in two Jet Ranger helicopters.

“Pike shooters, get a shot at the Blackhawk first! Before firing, I want you to share the aiming process of the shooter with the infrared laser so that you don’t fire at the same target at the same time!”

“Razor that!”

“Copy!”

Moments later, two rocket-grenade gunners were firing lasers at UH-60 helicopters circling over the fuel depot like vultures hunting for prey.

Unlike conventional 40mm high-explosive grenades, which have a range of at most 400 meters, the Pike could fly a distance of two kilometers and hit a laser-illuminated target.

“Shooter Baker (Shooter 2), take aim!”

“Shooter Able (Shooter 1), aim complete!”

As the reports from the two rocket-grenade gunners were relayed, Kelton opened his eyes and watched the UH-60 helicopters circling at their 10 o’clock position.

Then, just as he was about to give the order to fire, Kelton’s colleague, Sergeant Cordell, flying plane number two, suddenly shouted over the radio.

“Cease fire! ‘Bloody (fucking)’ Cease fire! Everyone stand by!”

At the sudden warning, Kelton scanned the surrounding skies and ground.

Moments later, Kelton and his mercenaries saw with their own eyes why the number two pilot had aborted the ambush attempt.

It was because of other aircraft moving from the distant 2 o’clock direction of the Jet Ranger helicopters towards the fuel storage area at the 10 o’clock direction.

Two AH-1 Cobra attack helicopters were flying at high speed toward the jungle chaos.

Kelton immediately gave instructions over the radio.

“Everyone stop shooting! Everyone stop shooting! We are leaving this area!”

Kelton let out a sigh of relief and slowly turned the Jet Ranger’s nose away from the fuel tank.

Then, while maintaining the crawling flight mode over the bushes, the helicopter was driven out of the detection range of the Cobra helicopter, and the number 2 helicopter followed behind.

Moments later, Cobra helicopters from behind opened fire with their 20mm Gatling guns, and the mercenaries inside the helicopters looked on in silence at the horrific scene of carnage.

Kelton, piloting the helicopter, was now mulling over what their next priority target should be.

For him, who had hundreds of special operations experiences in conflict zones on three continents, it was a moment when it became increasingly clear what the enemy, who had launched such a large-scale disruption operation, wanted.

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