Hostile Borders (5 page)

“But how will they ever mistake these bodies for us?” Pena said to take his mind off of what he was handling.

“They won't really,” Santiago said as he stood up. “There won't be enough of them left to recognize.” He flipped a tarp up that was covering a smaller mound next to the bodies. It was two green cloth haversacks. The rectangular bags were about a foot long and slightly thicker than they were wide. Several coils of green fuse lay on top of the bags with an M60 fuse igniter attached to the end of each coil.

Fascinated, Pena leaned forward to look at the explosives.

“C-4?” he asked.

“Forty pounds worth of it,” Santiago said.

“But if the bodies are blown apart by the explosions,” Pena said, “won't they just run DNA tests?”

“Yes, but they don't have to find a body, or even parts of it if the explosion is big enough,” Santiago said. “Just a sample of blood would be enough to limit their search once it was identified.”

Before Pena could straighten up from where he was examining the explosives, Santiago's right hand suddenly darted out. As fast as a snake's forked tongue, the hand seemed to just pass over Pena's arm, the blade of the Commander in that hand leaving a bright, red line growing on the arm as it passed.

As Pena gasped and spun away, Santiago tossed an old-fashioned orange kapok life jacket to him.

“Press that over the wound,” Santiago said. “Get it good and bloody. Then I'll give you a waterproof bandage for it.”

Without a word, Pena rubbed the bloody slash with the cloth cover of the life jacket. In front of him was a man who considered all of the details, and accepted what had to be done. Santiago was valuable, and dangerous.

There was the sudden sound of heavy gunfire from the deck almost directly over their heads. The noise was the knocking thunder of a light machine gun being fired from the stern deck of the
Princesa
.

“Sounds like the party has started,” Santiago said.

Taking the bloody life jacket from Pena, Santiago handed the man a plastic bag with a four-inch Blood-stopper dressing in it.

“Here,” he said, “put this on, then gear up.”

With his foot, Santiago pushed a heavy duffle bag across the deck to Pena. Leaving the other man standing there, Santiago went back up the ladder and out onto the deck. He tossed the bloody life jacket to the deck as he headed to where Reyes was at the stern of the boat.

As he had suspected, the sheriff's cruiser from the Embarcadero Marina Park just south of the Tuna Harbor, had come after the
Princesa
. Having opened up the long case on the stern deck, Reyes had pulled up a loaded M60 machine gun and sent a long burst of 7.62mm slugs dancing across the water toward the sheriff's boat. The flashing light on top of the cabin cruiser shattered as the streaking bullets slashed through it.

When Santiago came up next to Reyes, the sheriff's boat had already turned back and was heading toward shore at a high rate of speed.

“Next will be the Coast Guard,” Santiago said as he reached into the box.

Pulling on a lanyard line that went down into the engine compartment, Santiago fired several igniters buried in oil-soaked cotton waste. Smoke quickly began billowing up from behind the boat. Picking up a folding stock AKMS-47 from the box, Santiago turned to the wheelhouse where Captain Flores was looking back at the men with wide eyes.

“We will never be taken alive!” Santiago said as he brandished the AK.

Flores was beginning to look panic-stricken. To emphasize Santiago's point, and help push Flores to the breaking point, Diaz pulled a Smith & Wesson Model 36 revolver from his pocket. The small five-shot revolver was loaded with Federal 125-grain .38 Special hollowpoints. The weapon sounded like a small cannon in the confines of the wheelhouse as Diaz fired it up into the overhead.

Deciding that he had had just about enough of these madmen, Flores darted out of the wheelhouse and made a dive over the side of the boat. He had no way of knowing that if he had frozen in place with fear, Diaz had orders to throw him over the side. The plan was to have a witness to some of the actions on the fishing boat, and Flores was that witness. Later, he would tell the authorities that he had expected to feel the impact of bullets across his back at any moment. He could see that smoke was pouring out of the engine compartment and smell the burning oil. Hot brass or whatever from the men's weapons must have started a fire.

Stepping forward to the controls, Diaz took hold of the wheel and kept the boat moving along its original heading. Santiago and Reyes went into the hold leaving Diaz the only man up on the upper decks. The most important job Diaz had now was to keep watch. Timing was going to be tight.

In a short time, Diaz could see the bright orange and white markings on a Coast Guard boat as it came out of the station to starboard. The
Princesa
was just passing the end of North Island and the main Navy air base there. Instead of trying to make a run for the open sea, Diaz cut back on the throttle, killing the engines. Leaving the controls, he abandoned the wheelhouse and climbed down into the hold. The heavy steel cover on the hatch shut with a thud as Diaz pulled it down and dogged it tight.

Lieutenant Commander Foxbury on board the Coast Guard
Island
-class patrol craft
North
felt that whoever it was on board the trawler, they had made a serious mistake in their seamanship. The boat was wallowing in the water, smoke pouring from her stern. These were probably the hardcases who had just made the daring jailbreak that was on all of the police frequencies in the area. At least two officers were down in the Federal Building and there was one sheriff's deputy on the radio who was un-injured but badly shocked. He had been the first to come under fire from the boat. The men on board the trawler appeared to be heavily armed, but the 25mm Mark 38 cannon on the forward mount of the
North
would make short work of the wooden-hulled boat if the terrorists offered much in the way of resistance. Foxbury was not going to take any chances with the safety of his men.

“Chief Cushing,” Foxbury said, “go forward and make sure the Mark 38 is ready for action.”

Before Chief Cushing could acknowledge the order, 500 meters in front of the patrol craft, the smoking hull of the trawler vanished in a shattering explosion. An instant later, a roiling orange-red ball of burning gasoline blossomed into the early dawn sky. The shock of the blast could be felt in the superstructure of the
North
as the pressure wave struck the craft a second later.

“Jesus Christ and all of the saints,” Chief Cushing said as he looked at where the fishing trawler had just been obliterated. Bits and pieces of wreckage were raining down from the sky, making small splashes where they hit the waters of the bay. The time to hurry was past now, even for the Coast Guard. There could be no survivors of such a blast, no matter how tough and daring those men might have been.

 

The sun was up and burning off the cloud layers above San Diego a few hours later as Ensign Rawlings stood next to the helm of the twenty-five-foot homeland security response boat as it approached another civilian craft tied up to a mooring ball near the Grape Street Pier #1, south of the Coast Guard station. This was going to be the fifth boat the ensign had approached since he had been sent out to look for witnesses to the action that morning. The fifty-foot custom catamaran he was approaching was a beautiful motor-sailer. The single tall mast holding furled sails as the boat rode against her mooring line. The Coast Guard craft was coming in from the stern of the catamaran, moving to approach between the twin hulls that gave that class of boat her name.

Before Ensign Rawlings could even hail the big catamaran, a man in a white windbreaker walked out onto the forward deck. Chief Boatswain's Mate Majors at the controls of the Coast Guard boat cut the two 250-horsepower Honda outboards driving the small boat as the man on deck caught a tossed line. Seaman Watson held the bright orange foam floatation collar of the Coast Guard boat away from the catamaran as they came up to a boarding ladder, hanging next to a secured Zodiak F-450 inflatable boat.

“Permission to come aboard,” Ensign Rawlings said as he took the extended hand offered by the man on deck.

“Permission granted,” the man said. “I'm Captain Wellings. Welcome aboard the
Freedom
. What can I do to help the Coast Guard today?”

“Thanks, Captain Wellings,” Rawlings said. “We're looking for any witnesses to the explosion out in the bay this morning.”

“That was quite a blast,” Wellings said. “Knocked us around and put the boat's owner and his wife right out of their bed. They just came down from Orange County last night. But no one saw anything. That's Samuel Green and his wife and daughter right here in the main salon if you would like to ask them yourself.”

Looking forward, Rawlings could see several people sitting around a large table in the main salon of the boat. The older-looking man was leaning back in his seat, a cup in his hand. The heavy blue bathrobe he was wearing framed his smooth-shaven face and short black hair shot with gray. A mature red-haired woman
sitting to the man's right was wearing a matching bathrobe. The bulky robe wasn't able to mask what looked like a spectacular figure on the redhead.

The much younger blonde wearing very stylish blue and white sportswear looked like almost any other Southern California college girl, one who came from a well-to-do family. The very pretty girl smiled brightly and waved to the young officer, who was suddenly very concious of his appearance in his waterproof, insulated coveralls.

“No, that won't be necessary,” Rawlings said.

“Just what was that explosion this morning anyway?”

“A boat caught fire and there was a fuel explosion,” Rawlings said. “They're searching for evidence at the site right now.”

“We're planning to go out and do some whale watching to the south over the weekend, Ensign,” Wellings said. “The grays are migrating south and the sightings have been pretty good off Point Loma. Is there anything about the incident this morning that would interfere with that?”

“No,” Rawlings said. “Just give a wide berth to the anchored boats in the channel. And remember, don't disturb the whales directly. You can't take a boat within a hundred-yards of them and I would advise that you run on sail as much as you can—the whales don't like the sound of engines.”

“Not a problem,” Wellings said with a wide smile. “Thanks, Ensign.”

Standing on the rear deck of the
Freedom
, Garcia
Santiago, aka “Captain Wellings,” watched the Coast Guard boat push away from the catamaran and move off to head to the next craft moored some distance away. He turned and headed back into the salon where Pena sat rubbing his hand across his freshly shaved chin. A fast application of makeup by the redheaded woman had masked the lighter pallor of the skin under his beard.

“I must say, a busy morning,” Pena said.

“Nothing wrong with a jump and underwater swim before breakfast,” Santiago said. “It's a great way to start the day back in the SEAL Teams.”

“But I imagine you used to go over the side of the boat,” Pena said, “not down through her hull.”

“No, but now the Coast Guard are witnesses to the fact that no one got off that boat before she blew,” Santiago said. “So as far as anyone knows, everyone who was aboard is now dead. They'll search hard enough. But there won't be anything to find but pieces. And ‘Mr. Green' and his family are free to spend a leisurely weekend following the migration of the Pacific gray whales to their calving grounds off the coast of Mexico. Maybe even stop off at a port or two while south of the border.”

“I must say your choice in boat camouflage is admirable,” Pena said as he looked to the ladies on either side of him. The pretty blond girl was much older than she looked. Her young teenage looks were why she had been reasonably successful in a variety of adult entertainment venues. Her redheaded “mother” had also
been in the entertainment business, running a call-girl operation, one of Pena's other business interests.

“I thought you might like some companionship after your long separation,” Santiago said. “And they did manage to run that young ensign off fast enough.”

“You may cast off whenever you are ready, Captain,” Pena said. “I shall begin my new life by dealing with those who ended my old one soon enough.”

The cold look on the drug lord's face promised a short life to those he felt had wronged him.

The sun shone down from the clear blue of the Southern Arizona sky. It was going to be a real hot day, thought Ted Reaper as he drove along at the wheel of his rented Saturn sedan. But it's a dry heat, and he smiled at the thought. The upper nineties was still hot, no matter what the humidity was.

Back in Michigan the past June, it had been unseasonably cold, and the spring rains had been heavy. Some bright sun and heat would feel pretty good for a while. Reaper had spent a lot of time in the West during his time in the SEAL Teams, setting up training with various agencies, learning what facilities were available. He really liked the area and was looking forward to some downtime with old friends, and doing just a little bit of business to keep things moving and play with some new tools.

Traveling southeast out of Tucson on Highway 10, Reaper was just passing the Saguaro National Park to
his north. That still gave him about sixty miles to go before he reached Sierra Vista. From there he would head out to the Dogbone Ranch southeast of town.

The beauty of the desert appealed greatly to Reaper. It had a wild, untamable quality that seemed able to ignore a lot of man's encroachment. The sand went on for miles, covered by rough brush, cactus, and rocks. A short distance to the right of the road, Reaper could see some dust devils moving across the ground. The miniature tornadoes of dust and grit popped up and cut across the desert. One of the tall, tan, twisters was passing through a parking lot and some people were going to be very unhappy about their car being sand-blasted.

His mind went back to the problems he was having with money, cars, and everything only twelve months earlier. It had been a long year for Reaper. Any financial problems he had were pretty much gone, but his family life was flushed down the head as well. Just over a year before, his wife Mary and son Ricky had been kidnapped by a drug gang that wanted him to furnish weapons for them. The weapons were intended to help supply a Mideast terrorist cell in the U.S.

It was only through the skills Reaper had learned as a SEAL that he was able to get his family back and prevent a major terrorist incident. But even those skills wouldn't have been enough without the help given to him by a close Teammate and old friends from the Special Operations community. His Teammate Bear had died in the action against the terrorists, and Reaper missed him every day.

Bear hadn't been the only one to pay the bill for Reaper's actions. He had just paid the most of any of them. Reaper's marriage had been on rocky ground before the incident. Afterward, he wasn't able to argue against Mary's feelings that she and their son would be better off away from him and his past at least for the time being. Reluctantly, Reaper had agreed to a divorce. Now Mary was living with Ricky in another state.

Damn, Reaper thought, it wasn't as though he was still in the Navy and deploying with the Teams. But he still wasn't able to make a go of both his career and his family life. He had to agree that Mary was right. She and Ricky were safer not being with him, at least not while he was now working as a consultant and contractor for the Department of Homeland Security.

That was just about the only thing that had worked out for the better from Reaper's involvement in the terrorist incident. Retired SEAL Rear Admiral Alan Straker had left the Teams and taken up a position with the Department of Homeland Security. It was because of Admiral Straker's intervention that Reaper wasn't in prison or worse. The admiral had made all of the legal problems go away. Otherwise, the list of charges applied to a group of ex-military personnel using a variety of illegal weapons against foreign nationals within the territories of the United States would have been fairly long. Normally, the U.S. government did not look kindly on its citizens taking the law into their own hands.

It hadn't hurt at all that Reaper and his people also
received the rewards the State Department had been offering for the elimination of several of the terrorists on their most wanted list. The $2.5 million in cash they had recovered from drug dealers also stayed with Reaper's group, Straker hadn't asked about it, and the information wasn't volunteered. The cash was divided equally among all of the guys, and Reaper felt they had more than earned it. These men had helped him get his family back, safe and unhurt.

The most astonishing thing Reaper and his group had received was the full use of an island in northern Lake Michigan as their base. The place had a huge mansion on it, shooting ranges, boat docks, an airstrip, machine shop, boats, even an airplane. And Reaper's people had it as their base of operations.

The island had been paid for—big time. Ted “Bear” Parnell had also checked out while covering the withdrawal of Reaper and his family. It was easy to understand that Bear preferred going that way instead of dying of the cancer that was eating him up inside. Reaper felt he owed it to Bear's memory to keep “the Four Horsemen,” a term Bear used, as the registered name of their security consulting company. The base on South Wolverine Island had become the company headquarters.

As far as Reaper could tell, a Horsemen operation was one that Straker couldn't palm off on any other unit. That might not be exactly fair as the Horsemen hadn't even been called out for a hot operation yet. But to Reaper, the situation felt that way. The Horsemen were going to work in the United States and be one
way to get around the Posse Comitatus Act that prevented U.S. military units from acting as a direct part of civilian law enforcement.

The new headquarters did not come without some strings attached. In order to receive all of the largess from the government, and avoid a lot of criminal prosecution, they had to agree to conduct operations as needed, the missions to be directed from Admiral Straker's office alone. So now Reaper and his merry band were contractors for the U.S. government, a nice little euphemism for mercenary.

Reflections on the past year occupied Reaper's mind as he headed down the road. He was almost surprised when he realized that he was approaching Sierra Vista. Soon he was turning off the main road and heading up the half-mile-long dirt road leading to the main compound of the ranch. The wire fence that went around the 175-acre property extended from either side of a tall set of poles supporting a crossbeam. Hanging from the beam was a big wooden sign in the shape of a bone. Dogbone Ranch was spelled out in big letters burned into the wood.

This was going to be what he needed. Instead of spending time organizing the Horsemen or training, Reaper would spend some downtime with a friend far away from anything. It would be the first vacation he had taken in a very long time.

The dirt road leading up to the main house was dusty and winding. It went around the base of a number of small hills and crossed several dry wash gullies that would be rushing, destructive waterways once the rains
came. But right now, the area was dry. Dust blew through the scattered undergrowth.

A few hundred yards away to his right, Reaper could see tall, full trees, bright green and heavy with leaves. The trees and the grassland around them bordered the San Pedro River, a riparian national conservation area. The thorns, mesquite, and mostly brown sands only a short distance from the trees starkly illustrated the value of water in the area.

The road ended at a long brick wall surrounding the main buildings of the ranch. A wrought-iron gate penetrated the south wall without a latch or lock anywhere on its face. Next to the gate was a small sign reading
DOGS ON PREMISES
.

“That's an understatement,” Reaper said out loud as he reached out the window. Punching a six-digit number into the keypad on the pole next to the driveway unlatched the gate and powered it open. The electronic gate was only the first layer of security for the compound. Reaper knew that the second layer was going to be a hell of a lot more intimidating to any stranger.

Beyond the gate, the end of the road widened into a large, gravel parking area. There was a long, low building along the north side of the area, the three wide garage doors giving a good idea of what was held under the roof. Neat spaces of crushed red stone, raked and smoothed around a few scattered desert plants, bordered the parking place and the low adobe wall surrounding the house. Through an arched opening in the wall, Reaper could see green grass spreading out in the shade of several trees.

As he pulled up to the edge of the parking space, two huge black thunderbolts rushed from inside the adobe wall and stopped on either side of his car.

The two large, black-and-mahogany rottweilers barked only a little, but their loud voices clearly announced the arrival of the vehicle. It was obvious, as they stood at each door of the car, that they were in control of the situation no matter what any passengers of the vehicle might think. Anyone who didn't know the dogs would be more than a little intimidated by the mere appearance of the two powerful animals.

The rottweilers were relatively quiet, but the big brown-and-black German shepherd standing in the shade of the trees inside the adobe wall made more than enough noise to make up for them. The rottweilers kept watching Reaper intently, intelligence shining in their brown eyes. Reaper wasn't intimidated by the animals, but he was very respectful of them.

“Major, shut up,” came a loud voice from inside the house, “you know him.”

“Yeah,” called out Reaper as he opened the car door, “but does he like me? And what about his friends here?”

“He's not the one you have to worry about,” said the man who stepped out of the house and into the walled patio, “it's that big dummy next to you who'll knock you over just saying hello.”

“Grunt?” Reaper said as he held out the back of his hand for the rottweiler to sniff. “Is that you? Damn, you're a big dog now.”

“Well, it's been almost two years since you saw him
last. They do grow when you keep feeding them.”

Jerry “Cowboy” Hausmann walked up to Reaper and wrapped his arms around him in a big, masculine hug.

“Good to see you, Ted,” Hausmann said. “Glad you could manage to find your way back. Looks like Grunt remembers you, Sarge, too. Got some cold beer on tap inside, if I can force one on you.”

“You may be able to twist my arm,” Reaper said as he vigorously rubbed Grunt's big head. The short tail of the rottweiler was wagging so quickly it looked as if it would break the sound barrier. Sarge, the other rott, had seen that Hausmann was happy to see the man in front of him, and that was good enough for the dog. He came up to Reaper for his share of attention. The German shepherd had gone back to lying down on the grass in the shade of the tree.

“What's with Major?” Reaper asked as they walked through the yard and up to the house.

“Just getting a bit old, is all,” Hausmann said, “just like the rest of us. His arthritis slows him down a bit now. Anyone comes into the yard, all he does is ask for their license and registration—lets his deputies do the heavy lifting.”

Stepping through the arched entrance to the patio, Reaper followed Hausmann into the adobe-style house. The inside of the building was light, airy, and comfortably cool. The center of the room was dominated by a large pool table. Surrounding the table was a leather couch and well-padded leather chairs. A bar with four stools in front of it was on the opposite side of the room from the door.

As Reaper was standing at the door, a big chunk of dog waddled into the room and shoved itself up against his legs. The massive, heavily wrinkled face looked up at him as the heavily muscled body sat right down on his feet.

“Jarhead!” Reaper said as he bent over. “Still waddling around I see.”

As Reaper scratched the fawn-and-white English bulldog on the back, the animal practically convulsed with pleasure. Behind the bar, Hausmann opened a small freezer.

“Just don't fall for his begging bit,” Hausmann said. “If I really starved him as much as he acts, he wouldn't weigh nearly sixty pounds.”

Jarhead looked up at Reaper with a wide bulldog smile as his tongue came out and the dog started panting. The comedy of the big lump of a dog made Reaper laugh as he stood back up and went over to join Hausmann. The bulldog decided that rolling over on his back and doing the happy-doggy wiggle on a rug was the best way to continue his personal pleasure.

With a grin on his face, Reaper took a seat at the bar, and looked around at the definitely masculine Western-style decor of the room. Filled gunbelts hung next to framed Western artworks. And there was more than one Stetson hat and set of horns hanging from the walls. Past experience with Hausmann and his habits told Reaper to expect that every one of the weapons in the room was loaded—from the single-action Colts to the Winchester and Sharps rifles hanging in scabbards or on racks.

It wasn't that Hausmann was paranoid. He just believed that tools should be kept ready for use. Besides, anyone invited into the house was an adult and usually a long-time professional with weapons.

“Still roughing it out here in the sticks, I see,” Reaper said.

“Hey, us heartless attorneys have to hide out somewhere,” Hausmann said as he handed Reaper a mug of beer. “Might as well suffer in style.”

The first cold Corona in an icy mug went down well. The Western barbecue that Hausmann pulled out of the kitchen oven went well with another beer and some small talk between old friends. Afterward, both men went outside to the swimming pool to enjoy some coffee and cigars and to treat the dogs to some bones Hausmann had specially ordered for them from the same place he had gotten the barbecue.

Taking their treats and spreading out, each of the dogs lay down to enjoy a big bone from dinner. In the cool of the evening, even Jarhead was outside being sociable. It was startling to Reaper to hear the loud crunching and snapping sounds as the two rottweilers actually chewed up the bones.

Bullfrogs from the river nearby were putting their own sounds out to compete with all of the birds in the area. There was even the buzz of hummingbirds slipping up to the flowers growing around the patio. As the stars came out and the evening darkened, a huge full moon rose to shine down from the east. The peaceful surroundings helped the two men open the conversation to more serious subjects.