Hostile Borders (17 page)

“That woman is a danger to our operation,” Daumudi said. “She is a weak link in your chain of security.”

Watching the luxury SUV reach the road and head back to the Heart ranch, Santiago heard the comments and knew the al-Qaeda terrorist was right. But he wasn't going to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that.

“We have been running this operation for a year now,” Santiago said as he turned to Daumudi, “you do not need to concern yourself with its security. I would think that what you have seen so far would amply demonstrate that we are well able to seal off any security leaks when we deem it necessary.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment before Santiago broke the tense silence. He turned and walked to the front of the truck to watch for the car that was due at any moment. Daumudi knew that the man was dangerous, but then again, so was he. And he knew for a certainty that he could allow nothing to threaten the upcoming operation.

All of the expensive transportation of people and materials across the border had been in preparation for what would take place over the next few days. A specialist and his very valuable cargo was due in within a day. Once again al-Qaeda would strike at the very heart of the United States—and uproar and destruction of the vaunted U.S. people, their government, and their economy, would make the glorious World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks seem as healthful as a walk in the garden. Allah be praised.

It was less than fifteen minutes later that the silver Jeep Wrangler turned and came up the road to the mine entrance. Driving the Wrangler was Paul Stebbins, an ex-political-science major who was disillusioned with the United States and how he felt the U.S. was pushing its corruption of democracy onto the rest of the world. Having taken up the Islamic faith, Stebbins, whose new Muslim name was Mustafa Ibraham, was doing
what he could to help with the overthrow of the U.S. government and an establishment of an Islamic world state.

Daumudi and his fellow al-Qaeda fighters found Stebbins a useful tool, one that could be discarded without a second thought. Stebbins was not truly trusted by the organization. Ali Issa, who rode with Stebbins, watched the man carefully. He had orders to eliminate Stebbins at his first misstep.

With Humzan ready to get in the Wrangler and continue with his journey, there was nothing more to do at this point. Daumudi and Humzan embraced and kissed each other on the cheeks. Then Humzan climbed into the backseat of the Wrangler, his ever-present satchel clutched securely in his hand.

While the dusty Wrangler moved back to the road, Santiago and his men waited for the driver of the Gator to come back after the gate was secured. With his return, they headed back into the mine, the cavern, and Mexico at the other end.

While Hausmann dug out his spotting scope to set it up, Reaper took out the compact Carl Zeiss 7×30mm binoculars he had borrowed from Hausmann while they were still in the truck. Looking over the area in front of him, he could make out the sign on the truck identifying it as one of the fleet belonging to Heart Green Foods.

Having gotten the Bushnell spotting scope set up and focused on the area of the mine entrance, Hausmann once more rummaged in his Spec-Ops T.H.E. pack and pulled out the pair of binoculars he had placed there earlier. Handing the binoculars to Manors, Hausmann settled in behind the spotting scope and adjusted its focus.

The observation post the men had set up was just under the cover of a heavy stand of creosote bushes. If they were careful, and they would be, none of the men would be able to be seen from even a few feet away. They all
were experienced in the bush and their skills showed it.

The three men could clearly see the front of the mine, and the activity that was starting up there. At first, it was merely the movement of some shadows. Then a John Deere Gator rolled out of the mine and headed down the road. A few men followed from the mine and watched the Gator move off. Observing from the crest of the ridge, Reaper, Hausmann, and Manors knew that they had each probably just seen one of the ATVs that had made the tracks along the railroad and in the barn.

The men standing around the truck didn't look like they had stayed in the mine since the night before. All of them appeared to be heavily armed. The distinctive lines of the Israeli Galil rifle, with its long, curved thirty-five-round magazine and tubular folding buttstock, was familiar to all of them. Both Reaper and Hausmann knew that the fired ammunition they had found at the ambush site had come from weapons that certainly weren't Galils, so who were these people? For Reaper at least, that question was partially answered in just a few moments.

As the men watched, another vehicle shone its headlights onto the road leading up to the mine. While Hausmann and Manors turned their optics on the newcomer, Reaper's eyes were riveted on the front of the mine and the man who stood there.

“God damn,” Reaper cursed quietly and he gritted his teeth.

“What?” Hausmann whispered. “That just looks like Dupree's Lincoln Navigator.”

“Not that,” Reaper hissed through his clenched
teeth. “I know that bastard down by the truck.”

“Who?” Hausmann said. “The one with the shoulder holster giving the orders?”

“That's him,” Reaper said. “That motherfucker is Garcia Santiago. He deserted from Team Four back in 1990, right after Panama. He was going to be charged with stealing Team funds and drug dealing. I was going to be one of the witnesses against him. I never expected to see him in the United States again.”

“So what is he doing here?” Manors said.

“I don't know,” Reaper said, “but I'm sure of two things. One, that whatever he's doing, it can't be good. And two, that I will find out what it is.”

The men lay still and watched the exchange between Dupree and Santiago. There wasn't much question that the woman went from being aggressive to very meek and more than a little scared. If this was the tough broad who had killed Hausmann's dog, she was finding out that she was at best a pup among a pack of wolves. The exchange didn't go on for very long before she was back in her SUV and heading for the safety of her ranch. Nothing happened for a few minutes and the trio returned to their observations.

“Somehow,” Hausmann said quietly, “I don't think she's running off to call the sheriff.”

“Not that a county sheriff would have much of a chance against these hardcases,” Manors said. “They would eat a deputy up before he ever got out of the cruiser. And who in the hell are those Arab types down there?”

“I've got a feeling we're going to find out before
long,” Reaper said. “Here comes another vehicle.”

The Jeep Wrangler drove up to the mine entrance and the occupants got out. Whatever the conversation was, it was short. One of the two Arabs, and Reaper was sure that's what they were after watching them embrace—a very Middle-Eastern action—got in the Wrangler and drove off.

“I couldn't make it out through these glasses,” Reaper said. “Either of you two get the license plate number?”

“I couldn't read it,” Manors said, “but those colors make it a Nevada plate to me.”

Having pulled a small notebook and pencil from his vest pocket, Hausmann was leaning close to the paper and writing in the light of the brilliant desert moon.

“I got a partial,” he said, looking up from the notebook. “And you're right, it's a Nevada plate. That's a hell of a long drive from here. It's about five hundred miles from Tucson to Vegas.”

“Make sure you note down the make and model of that vehicle as well,” Reaper said.

“I'll put out a call for the Patrol to keep an eye out for it,” Manors said.

“No, you won't,” Reaper said firmly. “We'll keep watch for the time being. I have some people in Washington I'll contact who can bring a hell of a lot more heat down on a target than the Border Patrol can. This information could lead to some very big fish.”

“You had better know some very good people,” Manors said. “I may be on administrative leave, but I'm still a sworn officer of the law. My duty is to report what I've seen.”

“Believe me,” Reaper said, “the people I know are very, very good.”

“I've never cared for this secret squirrel stuff,” Manors said as he settled back down to the ground.

“That ATV is coming back,” Hausmann said.

As the men watched and noted the activity, the Gator returned from the road and went back into the mine entrance. All of the men were out of sight now. A few minutes after they had disappeared, the lights shining out from the mouth of the mine went black.

Continuing to watch for another twenty minutes, Reaper and his partners could see no more activity in the area. Outside of the truck being parked where it was, the place had taken on the appearance of an abandoned mine.

“Think we should investigate it a little more closely?” Hausmann said.

“Not the way we're armed,” Reaper said. “Those men down there were handling their weapons like professionals. And if Santiago is just half the pro he used to be, they're some of the best he could find. We would be outnumbered and outgunned, big-time. Besides, I think they're gone for the night.”

As they watched the area, Reaper's observation seemed to be right. There was no movement and no lights showing at the mine or out on the part of the road they could see. The mine entrance was completely out of sight of the road, but Reaper figured that the truck that was parked there would be gone in the morning.

Packing up their limited gear, the men carefully slipped back from the ridge and returned to the fence
in the Prowler. Pulling up some slack in the wire, Hausmann and Reaper held the ends in place while Manors twisted them together with a Victorinox Swiss Tool Reaper pulled from his vest pocket. The folding pliers secured the loose ends together firmly. It would have taken a close examination to see that the wires had ever been cut in the first place.

The ride back to the truck in the Prowler was conducted in silence. Each man kept his thoughts on what he had seen to himself. It wasn't until they were in the truck and returning to the ranch that they all started to relax a little. With that relaxation came questions.

“Just who is this Santiago guy you saw anyway?” Hausmann said from behind the wheel of the pickup. “You really sounded like you had a case of the ass against him.”

“He's not someone we talked about much back in the Teams,” Reaper said after a long silence. “A good operator gone bad. I knew him back in Four when we were gearing up for Panama. I was really fresh in the Teams then, it was only my second deployment with a platoon. Basically, I looked up to the guy as a real operator, someone I wanted to be like. Figured I could learn a lot from him. Glad I didn't learn the wrong things.”

“What happened?” Manors said from where he sat between Reaper and Hausmann.

“You still got any cigars in here?” Reaper asked.

“There's a cigar case and cutter in the glove compartment,” Hausmann said. “Matches, too.”

Opening the glove compartment, Reaper found the
long, slender cigar case with a cutter held in a side pocket. Removing one of the Baccarat Churchills in the case, Reaper clipped off the end. Opening the passenger window a few inches, Reaper used one of the big wooden kitchen matches held in a medicine bottle he found in the glove box. Once he had the cigar burning to his satisfaction, he drew on it for a moment, then started to talk.

“We went down to Panama as part of Task Force White,” Reaper said. “We were broken up into different task units. You probably heard of Task Unit Papa. That was the three-platoon force that went in to take down Noriega's private jet at the Paitilla Airfield. They ended up in a meat grinder, completed the mission, but at the biggest single loss to a SEAL Team from enemy fire since the Vietnam War.

“My group was Task Unit Foxtrot. We were a smaller detachment working as part of the main unit. Santiago was our leading petty officer and would move from place to place. He spoke Spanish like a native, not a big surprise since he had a Latino mother and an American father. So he would run field interrogations as prisoners were taken. It was supposed to give us a shot at gathering immediate intelligence as to just where Noriega was.

“The mission for Task Unit Foxtrot was to secure the approaches to the Panama Canal from the Pacific side. The day after the airfield was taken down, Foxtrot captured a couple of Noriega's personal yachts along with about eighteen Panamanians and a bunch of guns and ammunition. There were several packs of other items
seized in that capture that I never saw the inside of. But supposedly a couple of them had a bunch of money and documents.”

Stopping for a moment, Reaper continued to look out the window at the desert night. The passing bushes and plants were painted with a silver light from the moon shining down. It was a peaceful, beautiful scene—very different from the one that was playing in Reaper's mind. He drew on his cigar and the others waited for him to continue the story in his own good time.

“Santiago went through the packs and read some of the documents,” Reaper said. “Then he took one of the officers who had been captured into a cabin to interrogate him in private. I remember asking him if he wanted me to back him up during that interrogation, just keep an eye on the officer. But he said no and just took the guy inside.

“I never did find out what they had talked about. Santiago came out a while later and said the guy didn't have anything for us—that they were just guards who were supposed to keep Noriega's boats ready for him and secure the materials.

“For the rest of the week, Santiago kept disappearing into Panama, trying to develop intel was all he told me. I had no way of knowing just what he was doing, things were pretty busy for us off and on. By the second of January, everything was pretty much over and our unit was disbanded. We were sent to Little Creek but Santiago and a couple of others stayed back to work with the Intelligence people. I never saw him again.

“About a week later at Team Four, some Naval Crim
inal Investigation Service [NCIS] officers came down from D.C. and questioned a bunch of us, me in particular. Seems that those packs full of money or whatever never did get turned in. As far as Santiago went, he never came back from Panama. He deserted down there before they could find him. Went over the fence into South America. The last I heard, he was working as a mercenary for the drug cartels in Colombia.”

“So he's wanted in the United States?” Manors said.

“You could say that,” Reaper said. “He's wanted big-time by the Navy for desertion, and there's a few questions NCIS would like to ask him about the stories that he had made contact with Noriega's drug-running buddies in Panama. Helped them get out of the country during the chaos after Operation Just Cause. They were probably his introduction to the drug cartels.

“He was really hounded by the Navy and especially the NCIS people. It looked to us like they wanted to make an example of him. After all, we had gone into Panama in part to stop the drug traffic in the country, not add to it with one of our own. NCIS, DEA, the FBI, they all got on Santiago's case. Staked out his family, friends, Teammates, everyone who ever knew him or even just heard about him. The story was that the stress of the investigation caused his father to have a stroke and die. And Santiago never made it to the funeral, or even to say goodbye to his dad in the hospital. Both places were covered by so many agents that they outnumbered the people who belonged there.

“I really used to respect that man,” Reaper said quietly, “considered him my sea daddy at Team Four. That
crap he pulled left my career under a shadow for over a year. I finally transferred to SEAL Team One over on the West Coast. Took a while to get past that little experience.”

Hausmann knew that a sea daddy was the older operator who took a young SEAL under his wing so to speak, and showed him just what it took to be a real SEAL operator. It was a relationship that could be closer than family. Manors didn't really know the significance of the term, but he could see that it meant a lot to Reaper.

“And now he's back,” Reaper said. “Maybe this time I'll get some answers.”

It was very early in the morning when the men got back to the Dogbone Ranch. It even took the dogs a moment to all wake up and start barking as they arrived. The gear was all taken down and cleaned up, the Prowler unloaded, cleaned, and refueled. Weapons were wiped down and racked. Once all the chores were taken care of, a couple of beers were passed around and the men sat drinking quietly. Reaper went up to the second floor of the house, where Hausmann had his office.