Hostile Borders (27 page)

“Roger that, Death,” Mackenzie said, “I'll be waiting. Famine out.”

“Warrick,” Mackenzie called out. “Take over my vehicle, I'm joining with Reaper.”

Still lying on the ground, Warrick responded with a left-handed thumbs-up. His right hand was still holding on to his Barrett. He had heard the exchange between Reaper and Mackenzie over his own headset. For now, he was keeping an eye on the approaching Mexicans through the Unertl scope on the big rifle.

“Famine and Death, this is War,” Warrick said. “I count six incoming hostile carriers. No armor, but at least three of them are armed. I count two heavy machine guns and one antitank weapon—looks like a big recoilless. They will be on target in fifteen mikes (minutes) or less.”

Shit, Reaper thought to himself. There was no way his small force could take on even part of the Mexican military. And the political fallout from that kind of fight couldn't be ignored. Their only choice was to run, and run fast.

“Roger that, War,” Reaper said. “Prepare to pull out.”

Sparing a moment to glance at Daumudi, Reaper could see that the terrorist was in a bad way. His dusky Middle-Eastern complexion was an ashen gray from shock. There was only a moment that Reaper could
spend looking at the man before he had to go back to concentrating on his driving. The big, heavy Suburban smashed its way through the brush heading up the hillside. If he slowed or stopped, Reaper knew that he might not be able to get the overweight armored vehicle moving again in the loose gravel and sand.

For every twist, turn, and jarring bump of the SUV, Dr. Ammad screamed into his gag. The muffled screams were growing thinner and weaker inside the noisy, dusty interior of the SUV. Thanks to Warrick's marksmanship, the rear window of the Suburban had been smashed out by the same .50-caliber rounds that had torn open one of the isotope containers. The air inside the SUV was thick with the dust that was stirred up by Reaper's driving, and sucked in through the ragged back window.

The dust was bad, but at least you could see it. That couldn't be said for the invisible poison in the air, the radiation from the open isotope container. All that Reaper and Hausmann could do was hope that the dose they were receiving would not be permanently damaging. The radiac meters in their pockets sat silently, counting up the radiation they had been exposed to so far.

Grinding through the gravel of the hillside, Reaper finally brought the Suburban to a halt in a cloud of dust at the side of the ravine where the rest of his men were. Pushing open the door, Reaper stood up and shouted to Mackenzie:

“Get in here and see if you can keep these two alive! The rest of you, saddle up. We are pulling out ASAP.”

Having already shut and latched the case to the Barrett, Warrick stood up with the big weapon cradled in his arms. He snatched up the case with his left hand and trotted back to the Prowlers. His M40A3 was strapped across his back, bouncing at every step.

At the two Prowlers, Manors and Column were finished strapping down the rest of the gear. The engines of the two Prowlers were idling over as the two men helped Warrick secure his gear. The big Barrett had well proven its worth against the two Suburbans. It might be needed again soon enough if they had to fight their way out past the incoming Mexicans.

At the Suburban, Reaper and Hausmann were trying to help Mackenzie treat the two wounded terrorists. The ex-Air Force parajumper (PJ) had worked as a paramedic after leaving the service. His medical training both in and out of the military was more than useful now as he had his trauma pack open on the seat next to him as he tried to stop the bleeding from Dr. Ammad's broken leg.

A shattered splinter of bone stuck out of the wound torn open by the hollowpoint bullet. At least no major blood vessels had been severed, a small miracle given the four bullet wounds in the two men's legs. It didn't help Mackenzie's concentration in his task to hear the radiac set in his pocket start beeping as soon as he stepped inside the Suburban.

“The back has a bunch of cans in it,” Reaper said. “One of them tore open and it's full of long silver rods. I think they're the isotopes. You don't have to stay in here with me—but I'm not leaving that crap behind.”

“Get ready to pull out,” Mackenzie said. “I've got wounded to treat. You just worry about getting us out of here.”

The short, wiry ex-PJ reached into his pocket, clicked off the alarm on his radiac set, and then went back to strapping a pressure bandage on each of Daumudi's legs. Dr. Ammad was in much worse shape and would have to be immobilized for the trip out—or at least held as still as possible. Climbing into the backseat, Mackenzie started working on Dr. Ammad as Hausmann helped.

“Go,” Hausmann said, his hands covered with blood, “we can handle this.”

“Load up,” Reaper shouted out the door. “Abandon what isn't secured. We leave now, follow me.”

Sitting back down in the Suburban, Reaper went over his options. They were few, surrender to the Mexicans and face whatever they might offer, probably death, prison at the least. Or make a run for the border. It wasn't even a choice.

Stepping on the gas and feeling the big vehicle start to move, Reaper headed for the crest of the ridge. Well within sight on the other side of the ridge was the black fence line of the border. It was less than a mile away.

The escape plan had no finesse to it at all, no tricks. Reaper would drive straight for the border and smash the big Suburban through the fence. If drug runners could do it with old pickups, the massive armored Suburban would tear through as if the fencing were tissue paper. Then the Prowlers could follow through the hole he would make.

A simple plan, but they had to reach the border for it to work.

 

General Martinez was responding to an emergency radio call from Masque with his rapid deployment scout platoon. The men he had with him were all trusted people he knew he could depend on. If the arrogant Americans had crossed the border, they would find the going not so easy.

As they came within sight of the hacienda, Martinez could see that the place was in flames. So much for the funds that were going into his retirement. But the lone white vehicle heading over the ridge between the hacienda and the border, that was something he could go after and quench his sudden thirst for revenge.

The six open jeeps that made up General Martinez's convoy held more than two dozen men and their small arms. In addition, two of the jeeps carried post-mounted M2 HB .50-caliber machine guns. The last jeep had a 106mm M40A1 recoilless rifle on it. The recoilless was able to stop a heavy tank with one of its high-explosive shells. It could blow the truck in front of them to bits.

Ordering his driver to speed ahead, Martinez leaned back in his seat and hung on. Already, he was thinking about how he could take control of the local drug trade if Masque was gone. The thought gave him a warm feeling as the jeep he was in crested the ridge and the border stretched out in front of them.

Charging down the hillside, the six military vehicles
headed toward the border at full speed. Just a short distance in front of them, the white SUV could be seen charging across the desert. Now there were two other, much smaller, vehicles moving with the big white one. These were just dune buggies of some kind.

It wasn't the U.S. military or even law enforcement who had invaded his country. It was probably nothing more than a bunch of drug smugglers trying to increase their action by taking out the competition. This would never do and Martinez ordered his driver to increase speed.

As the big vehicle approached the border, it didn't slow down at all. The two smaller buggies fell behind the bigger one as it drove up to, and smashed through, the fence at the border. It had tried to escape into the United States. That just wouldn't work.

As General Martinez chuckled, the laughter died in his throat. Dozens of vehicles were becoming visible on the other side of the border. The white and green paint job on the trucks was very familiar to Martinez. It was the U.S. Border Patrol. And by the looks of things, it was the entire Arizona branch of the Border Patrol.

This was another thing entirely. Chasing down some drug dealers into the United States could be passed off as a mistake in crossing the border. Taking on a hundred agents of the Border Patrol would mean the end of his career at least, his quiet elimination as an embarrassment to the government at the most.

No, it was time to cut his losses. Telling his driver to stop, General Martinez raised his hand to call a halt to the entire patrol. As he watched, the white SUV came
to a stop, the doors opened, and men stood up. From the back of an ambulance nearby, medical personnel in white shirts ran up to the SUV. Several men wearing odd-looking bright yellow plastic suits got out of a red van and walked up to the SUV holding silver instruments in their hands. They had clear helmets over their heads and faces.

Perhaps, Martinez thought, it wasn't a bad thing that he hadn't caught up to the fleeing vehicles.

Several days after their sudden return from Mexico, Hausmann was sitting at home reflecting on everything while Jarhead lay on the couch next to him. The big bulldog was enjoying having his back scratched and positively wiggled with pleasure. Laughing at the sight, Hausmann redoubled his efforts to scratch at the dog and was rewarded with a series of happy grunts and wheezes for his efforts.

Suddenly, Jarhead twisted around and jumped off the couch. He trotted up to the hallway leading back to the poolroom just as Reaper walked through it. Behind Reaper were two very big rottweilers bouncing along with their tongues hanging out.

“You know,” Hausmann said, “you really put a dent in the vicious killer hellhound image I'm trying to cultivate in those dogs.”

“Sorry about that,” Reaper said as he sat down in one of the easy chairs.

“No you're not,” Hausmann said with a laugh. “So, what's the story now?”

“Things are settling down now,” Reaper said. “Warrick and Mackenzie are winging their way back to Michigan right now. The sheriff's office finally gave my people their weapons back, though they were really reluctant to. A call from D.C. apparently eliminated all of the problems, or at least told them we had the right licenses for everything. The sheriff didn't believe there was a license you could have for a grenade launcher and ammunition. He was told he was wrong.

“And Diamondback Tactical has their Prowlers back as well as a good report on how they stand up to hard riding. Manors is back on full duty, and with a promotion no less as well as back pay. Funny how someone much higher up in the food chain can convince a local commander to shut the hell up.”

“Hey, that's great,” Hausmann said. “What about our prisoners?”

“What prisoners?” Reaper said. “I'm not kidding here. It would be a real good idea if you forgot there was anyone else in that Suburban but the two of us. And as far as those boxes in the back go, they never existed at all.”

“Okay,” Hausmann said. “I can see that there isn't any use arguing with people I can never know. Since the doctors gave us a clean bill of health as far as our exposures went, I don't care about what even could have been in the back of that car. But just how the hell did everything happen down there at the border?”

“That's something I did get the word on,” Reaper
said. “You know those satellites that we didn't get the pictures from?”

“Didn't get?” Hausmann said puzzled. “Oh, yeah, the ones we never got and never were wiped from my computer.”

“Yeah, those,” Reaper said. “It seems that someone in Washington was watching what was going on south of here. Just like in the movies, he could see people on the ground and vehicles moving in real time. When some boxes that don't exist showed up on the screen, they lit up the sensors like a baby star.

“The powers-that-be started communicating with a lot of different agencies. The Border Patrol was told in no uncertain terms that it would be heading for the border with everyone—that's every cook, mechanic, and secretary who wore a badge and could carry a gun—ASAP. When the word got out that one of their own might be in trouble, even the retired and off-duty personnel showed up. Including that Nuclear Emergency Search Team.”

“Those were the NEST guys in the plastic suits?” Hausmann said.

“Yes,” Reaper said. “They were already on alert because of the earlier information we passed on. When the balloon went up on the satellite, they were up and moving toward the border.

“Then there's the strange story of Valentine Dupree.”

“What?” Hausmann said, “the snake bitch? What happened to her? They try to bust her for dope?”

“Hers is the weirdest story of this whole thing,” Reaper said. “Apparently, she's been running dope for years. They found all the evidence they needed in her
ranch house to close down drug dealers all over the country. When the Border Patrol cars came down the road to the Heart Ranch, she must have figured her time was up. At any rate, she panicked.

“Dupree climbed into her Lincoln Navigator and drove off into the desert. Where she was going to run to in that thing, no one knows. One thing's for sure, no matter what the ads say, that luxury SUV is not made for going across rough country. She may have run into a dust devil without noticing it coming up on her. The front of the Navigator is scoured like someone took a sand blaster to it.

“The blowing sand must have blocked her windshield completely. All she would have had to do was stand still for a moment. Just stop the car and let the dust devil blow on by. Instead, she kept going and drove herself right into a cut. Sank her front wheel to the axle.

“So again, all she would have had to do was wait and someone would have come looking for her. But no. To make matters worse for herself, she gets out of the car and tries to run across the desert.”

“What happened?” Hausmann said. “Did she get away?”

“Nope,” Reaper said, “and she never will. She's reporting to a higher court now. Of all of the stupid things she did, the final one killed her. Walking in the desert, she managed to step right into a den of Mojave rattlesnakes. They must have bitten her a dozen times. When they finally found the body, she had been dead from the venom for hours. And she wasn't more than twenty feet from her Lincoln.”

“Well,” Hausmann said. “They say that drugs kill.”

“Not as well as stupid does,” Reaper said.

“So everything's fine now?” Hausmann said. “We don't have to worry about any more ambushes, the law, anything?”

“I don't think so,” Reaper said. “They never did get a report as to what happened to Masque. But the Cardenal Muerte cartel is falling apart. It seems that a computer disk showed up at the U.S. embassy in Mexico City. It outlined the whole cartel. If I didn't know better, I think that someone is trying to pay Uncle Sam off and keep him from chasing someone down.

“But the only thing you have to worry about is the IRS.”

“The Internal Revenue Service?” Hausmann said. “Why would I have to worry about them.”

“Remember that bag I took off that nonexistent person?” Reaper said. “Well, since the individual doesn't exist, neither does the bag. Your share of the diamonds that were in that bag should come to a good-sized chunk of change.”

“Diamonds?” Hausmann said. “And we get to keep the money?”

“How do you think we manage to pay for all of the stuff we use?” Reaper said. “They're still discussing if we'll be able to draw on the reward that was offered on those two ‘nonpersons' we brought for a visit.”

“So what do we do now?” Hausmann said.

“How should I know?” Reaper said as he leaned back and rubbed Grunt's big head. “I'm on vacation.”