Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (32 page)

“Yeah. Big sucker too. They got ’em that landin’ strip, an’
they built ’em a road through the bayou to Houma. They the ones got no respect for wildlife, not me.”

“Do you know whose plane it is?”

“Ain’t for people, that’s all I know. Comes in right over my head, usually at night. Trucks be waitin’ to unload, then the plane takes off again. Curious, if you ask me, curious.”

“Where is this landing strip?”

“I can practically spit at it from here. That’s why the plane nearly takes my roof off every time it comes in for a landin’.”

“I need to see it. Now.”

“You sit there an’ finish breakfast first. Damn, yo’ mama raised herself a boy with no manners at all.”

Boucher wolfed down his beans, gulped his coffee, then sat while the old man calmly finished his.

“Man in too much of a hurry gonna get to the end of his life a lot quicker than a man who takes it slow,” Crabb said as he rose from the table. He went to a chest and opened a drawer. “You take these. You can’t be runnin’ around in what you wearin’. It’s unseemly for a man your age, especially bein’ a judge, if that’s what you really be.” He handed Boucher an old gray cotton work shirt and a pair of patched bib overalls. “They’ll fit you good enough to get you to a store. You can bring ’em back someday if you got the time.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Boucher stammered.

“If your folks taught you anything, they taught you to
say thank you, right? That’s enough. Now come on. You’re the one who’s got the itch all over him.”

They walked to the pirogue and unloaded the dead gator onto the bank. Boucher stared again at the creature that had almost taken his life in trying to save its own. It looked no less threatening in death. Anticipating another slog through the swamp, he was wearing his gym outfit in an effort to keep the clothes Crabb had given him clean and dry as long as possible. He got in the boat, and Crabb poled away from the bank. In minutes they had crossed open water and stopped a few yards from a man-made embankment.

“Far as I can take you,” Crabb said. “Water’s too shallow to go closer. When you get to the bank, climb up. You’ll see the runway.”

Boucher stepped out of the boat, then shook the old man’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Good luck to you,” Crabb said. He shook his head. “Damnedest judge I ever heard of.” He pulled away, turned, and headed for his home.

Boucher watched him go and promised himself that he’d see the colorful coot again. There was something of himself in that grizzled old man, something he’d lost long ago.

B
OUCHER BEGAN WADING, TRUDGING
through sludge. The bottom had been churned up from the construction of the landing site, and his feet were sucked into the muck with every step. It was tough going. In seconds he was covered in mosquitoes, which began buzzing around his eyes and ears and feeding on his arms. He reached down to the bottom, brought up fists of mud, and plastered his skin from head to toe. When the exposed areas of his body were covered, the mosquitoes left him alone. Still, he wanted to scratch himself raw in about a thousand places. He reached the stone-covered embankment. The sun was rising, and visibility was clear, which meant he could also be seen. He climbed up the rock face. Finally out of the mud, Boucher slipped the denim overalls and shirt over his gym outfit.

Lying on the extreme end of the runway, he could
see the plane at the far end. It looked like a C-130. The rear hatch was down, forming a ramp, but nothing was being loaded on or off. He could not see anything inside the dark, gaping maw of the aircraft. A group of men sat at a small wooden table, employing the shade of a wing. Boucher couldn’t make out what they were saying and crawled closer till he could hear the voices. Dumont was there, of course, and he recognized Moore and Quaid. The lawyer from Houston was also in the group. Boucher inched forward.

“Landing will be west of the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge,” Benetton said. “It’s two thousand acres of several different climate zones, a migratory location for a number of bird species, and home to the Texas ocelot and jaguar. The location is a few miles south of Alamo, Texas, right on the river. Just west of the wildlife preserve is an old cemetery that’s rarely used. We’ve cleared a temporary landing strip on the other side of the cemetery. The weapons will be placed in the graveyard for pickup; after unloading, the plane and crew will take off immediately.”

“Alamo? Santa Ana?” Dumont chuckled. “Who is going to tell me history doesn’t repeat itself?”

“Alamo is a small town in Hidalgo County, Texas,” the lawyer continued. “It was named for the Alamo Land and Sugar Company back in the twenties and has a population of around fifteen hundred. I have given coordinates to the cartel where they cross the Rio Grande into the park.
They think the national park is perfect for the pickup. In fact, they’ve used it before. The drought has been very serious, and there are large irrigation diversions upriver that will be employed and will have temporarily reduced the flow in this area to a shallow depth. It’s only about fifty feet from bank to bank at the crossing point and the cartel has a new toy, one you should appreciate, General. They’ve built a pontoon bridge. I hope you’ve planned a proper reception.”

“I have,” General Moore said. “The Texas National Guard will be waiting: citizen soldiers, one of our country’s proudest traditions.”

“You know there are going to be casualties,” Benetton said.

“Yes. That’s unfortunate, but if we want the response we are hoping for, there must be loss of American life. No one who wears a uniform is unaware of the risk taken every time they put that uniform on. Today they are soldiers. Tomorrow they might be the honored dead. But we are doing everything possible to minimize casualties. We are going to employ weapons of war that will strike terror into the hearts of these invaders. My fear is that they will turn tail and run as soon as they see them, before they fire a shot. We’ll be using robots.”

“What?”

“Remote-controlled robots. When aimed, they do not miss.”

“That’s good,” Quaid quipped. “We don’t want stray
shots hitting any of the CIA, DEA, or Special Ops forces probably already hiding in the bushes across the river.” This brought on a round of knowing laughter.

Moore continued. “The controller observes from a position of safety and operates the portable control unit, which contains video screens and joysticks. These weapons will engage the terrorists. They can operate in up to six feet of water and will chase them back across the river. Gentlemen, if we do our jobs in Washington, after the National Guard, the next wave will be the U.S. Army. But initially, the robots will ensure that our casualties are minimal.”

“What documentation does this plane have to fly to Texas?” Dumont asked. “I only had clearance to get it here.”

“She’s getting a paint job,” Quaid said. “New call letters, new air operation certificate, and new crew. Tell those guys in the cockpit their job is done. Pay them and get them out of here. I don’t want them to see us painting the bird. They know too much already.”

Boucher watched as the arrival flight crew was released. The paint crew arrived. Four men were engaged in painting the phony call numbers, two of them on the fuselage, two on the tail. One of each team held a stencil, the other a can of spray paint. This took under an hour. The paint was still wet when an SUV pulled up and parked next to the open ramp. The new crew got out and climbed up. Seconds later, Boucher observed them enter the cockpit.

Dumont spoke. “General, how will you confirm when the terrorists are on U.S. soil?”

“We will have satellite pictures,” the general said, then laughed. “You’re a history buff, Dumont. You remember what William Randolph Hearst said to his reporter before we went into Cuba? ‘You provide the pictures. I’ll provide the war.’ I’m going to provide the pictures
and
the war. Once again, history repeats itself.”

B
OUCHER CRAWLED TOWARD THE
plane till he was parallel with it. Dumont and the others had walked back and were inside a shed near the beginning of the runway. This was his chance. He crawled over the tarmac, under the wing, then under the fuselage until he was at the ramp and open rear bay of the aircraft. Then he just stood up and walked into the plane. He climbed over cartons and crates as far into the interior of the aircraft as he could go, then nestled between boxes, pulling one over him. It took no effort. It was empty. He pushed at other crates. They too were light. They too were empty. The shipment was a ruse. Hidden among the fake cargo, he had nothing to do but wait. And pray.

The bay door was raised and locked in place. Engines turned over, and props sliced the humid air of the marshes. The plane lumbered to a slow taxi to the end of
the runway, turned, and prepared for takeoff. The whine of the propeller blades pitched higher and higher. The aircraft lurched forward and began controlled acceleration. Though the runway was smooth, the contents of the cargo area rattled and vibrated. Boucher had to hold on to the crate covering him to keep it from sliding. Then they were airborne, above the bayou. He pictured the old man paddling below in his pirogue and wondered whether he looked up and waved a final farewell.

•  •  •

Boucher was beginning to feel his muscles cramp when the plane finally banked and the descent began. They’d been in the air under three hours, by his reckoning. The landing jolted him. This was not smooth tarmac but hardscrabble desert. It had been cleared but was rocky and pitted. They came to a stop. Like a hound that had run till it was out of breath, the huge aircraft seemed to sink into itself as if collapsing, the slowing of its props like some final gasp. There were several minutes without any motion, then the rear hatch was opened. Even cocooned by cartons, Boucher could feel the rush of dry desert air. He heard one of the men descend the ramp, then climb back up.

“Are we in the right place?”

“Ask the pilot.”

Boucher peeked from behind his barricade. There
was a set of headphones with mike hanging on the wall with which one could speak to the flight deck.

“Are we in the right place?” There was brief silence. “Roger that.” The man hung up the headphones. “Pilot says we’re where we’re supposed to be. We landed in the strip they cleared for us. We’re next to a cemetery. We have to pile the stuff there, then get the hell out.”

The four men began to unload the crates.

“Hey, some of these things are empty,” one said.

“Not our problem. Let’s dump this shit and get out of here. Whatever’s going on here, I don’t want to be a part of it.”

The men were independent agents, interested only in getting paid. Boucher watched and waited as they carried the first load over to the cemetery. He crept from his niche and walked to the ramp. They were about fifty yards away, with their backs to him. He ran down the ramp and away from the plane, then dove to the ground as the men returned for the final unloading. The cargo was stacked at the edge of the cemetery, maybe fifty yards from the river. The plane’s engines started. A dust cloud consumed the aircraft. The men climbed inside; the ramp was raised. The plane again taxied, then turned, revved its engines, and began takeoff. Boucher could clearly see into the flight deck as it passed him, the plane’s front wheels inches off the ground. The big bird lumbered into the air, and dust settled slowly. Jock Boucher stood alone on a desert plain,
on the fringe of the Chihuahua desert, on the banks of the Rio Grande.

He faced the river. The water was slow-running. There was desert sand beneath his feet, the land around him covered with scrub brush. To his left was the cemetery where the weapons were stacked. Recalling that there might be eyes on the landing site from across the river, he bent over and ran to the graveyard. He crawled through the cemetery, reading the names on the tombstones. Names like Pharr, Briscoe, Duval, and McAllen were known throughout South Texas. Names like Hinojosa, Garcia, and Martinez were not as well known but staked no less a claim to the ground. There was no time to give the dead their due; he had to find a way to stop the carnage about to begin.

The cemetery had been built on a hill that sloped down to the river. Over the crest of this hill, Boucher saw an old man standing at a grave site, head bent, hat in hand. He walked slowly toward him, winding his way between headstones. When he was close enough, he spoke in a low tone. “Sir, there are armed men coming here. It’s going to get dangerous. You must leave.”

The man, dressed in jeans, boots, and a western shirt, looked to be a local farmer; Hispanic, this discernible by his features and the name on the gravestone before which he stood. He did not respond. Boucher scanned his limited Spanish vocabulary. “
Por favor,
” he said.

“I speak English. I’m American. You look like you’ve been rolling in pig shit.”

Boucher sighed his relief. “Sir, could I borrow your cell phone?” He nodded at the device hanging on the man’s leather belt.

“Local call?”

“Actually, no. I need to call the White House. Sir, I’m Federal District Judge Jock Boucher.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m George Washington,” the man said.

“No, really, I’m Judge Boucher.”

“And I’m really George Washington. George Washington Hinojosa. Here. Give the president my regards. Talk all you want. I’ve got extra minutes.” He retrieved his cell phone from its case and handed it over.

Boucher could not recall the direct number the president had given him, and dialed the main White House number. “I’m Federal Judge Jock Boucher. This is a matter of national security. I must speak with the president. My password is
gavel
.”

“Password?” the operator said. Boucher held the phone away from his ear. Her laughter sounded like the breaking of crystal on the still air of the South Texas morning.

But he was ultimately connected to the president. “Jock, you haven’t been shot or shot anyone this morning, have you?”

“No, Mr. President. But the day’s not over yet. Sir, I’m
calling from a borrowed cell phone. I’m standing on the banks of the Rio Grande. I don’t know if GPS—”