Hostile Borders (9 page)

“The present administration will not just sit on its
hands and make empty threats. Saddam Hussein and the Taliban thought the U.S. was nothing but a paper tiger and wouldn't act. They found out they were very wrong. There are some very capable people in the States who could do us very serious harm.”

“I understand your concern, but you are mistaken,” Masque said as he continued to pace the room. “The American people won't do anything to us. They practically pay us to kill them. In fact, in a way they do pay us to kill them, or at least put them out of their misery. The U.S. has an insatiable demand for the products we send them. Marijuana, cocaine, heroin—it doesn't matter what we send, they want more. And if they want something new, we'll get that for them, too.

“The war against drugs is an unwinnable joke. Law enforcement, the DEA, the U.S. government, even the Mexican government, they all know that as long as there's a demand for drugs, the people will keep their hands tied. The high-and-mighty want cocaine, the inner city wants crack, street addicts want heroin, and the college kids want pot along with everything else. We supply their needs and they give us money. With that money comes power, enough power to buy the protection of governments from governments.”

“Down in Colombia not too long ago,” Santiago said, “Pablo Escobar thought the same thing. That money was power and with enough of it, no one could come after you. He was wrong and now he's dead.”

“Escobar?” Masque said. “Pablo Escobar was an uneducated peon suffering from delusions. He didn't want to simply control the Colombian cocaine trade,
he wanted to control the entire country of Colombia. He rubbed shoulders with that thug Noriega and thought himself a world leader. That slum-raised peon wanted the poor people to worship him and the rich to fear him. He was nothing but a terrorist. That's why he was hunted down and killed.

“No one knows who exactly is in charge of the Cardenal Muerte cartel. It's why I've never let my face be seen except by people who were about to die. That's my protection. And I'm not interested in taking over a country, I want to destroy one, help it rot from the inside. If there are others who hate the Americans and want my help to attack them, I can give it. Terrorists are tools I can make use of. Besides, what are the Yankees going to do? Kill me? They already did that once, there won't be a second time.

“I'll use their own vices to supply the means to destroy them. It's simple business. The crack smokers don't like the crash that comes ten minutes after their high? Then we'll sell them moonrocks, crack mixed with heroin. Their bodies will still crash, only it won't hurt as much. With our own laboratories, we'll produce the drugs ourselves, use our own distribution networks for sales, and eliminate the middle man. That makes for even more money coming in to us, and eliminates a possible infiltration route for DEA agents.

“The Americans want to die stoned out of their minds? Fine, I'll help them with their wish. And they can pay me for the privilege. The U.S. tried to kill me once, now I'll help kill them. Those actions you are so concerned about, what the American military has done
in Iraq and Afghanistan. Those have made the Americans a lot of enemies in the world—enemies who also have money. I can have my revenge and make a profit at the same time.

“The other drug cartels have been afraid to take any of the terrorists' money and help them. They fear that will risk their precious bottom line, their drug profits. Now that I'm in charge, I say what is the bottom line. Besides, if the U.S. becomes more oppressive of its own people in trying to defend against terrorists, that will just push up the demand for our products. This situation will work for us.”

Not agreeing with the man who paid him so well, Santiago simply sat there in the spacious room and considered the situation.

“Using our pipelines to help funnel in terrorist finances is one thing,” Santiago said. “We can profit from that and the threat to us is minimal. But further involvement such as you have been considering, that's what is really dangerous.”

Eduardo Masque merely smiled softly at Santiago's concern. The look in his eyes glinted with a hint of madness.

“Another of our Middle-Eastern friends is due to arrive tomorrow,” Masque said. “He's bringing with him another package to be taken into the United States. I want you to escort him across the border, after suitable security precautions are taken of course.”

As the two men headed out to the parking area, Hausmann stopped at a side door in the short hallway that led from the living room to the poolroom.

“I don't think I'll travel quite as lightly as I did last night,” Hausmann said as he opened the door. “Something with a little more range and power than a pistol or carbine sounds good.”

The room past the door was a compact but well equipped exercise area. Dominating the center of the room was a universal weight machine with its various stations for different resistance exercises. For those workouts done better with free weights, there were racks of weights lined up along the outside wall, just on the other side of a large bench. On the opposite wall was both an elliptical trainer and a treadmill for cardiovascular work.

The left-hand wall of the room was completely covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. As Reaper watched,
Hausmann went over to the mirrored wall and pressed hard on a seam between two panels. There was a soft click and two of the panels unlatched and swung outward, revealing a pair of large safe doors with a combination lock dial on the right-hand door.

A fast series of spins of the combination dial allowed Hausmann to unlock the doors and pull them both open. Inside the safe was a long rack of rifles and shoulder arms along the back wall. The doors were each covered with pegboards holding a variety of handguns and holsters. Several shelves along the top of the safe had stacks of magazines and different boxes of ammunition across their length.

“Got enough guns?” Reaper asked.

“You mean there's such a thing as enough guns?” Hausmann said. “What an astonishing concept. Must come from all of that city living you've been doing back East. These are just what I have to make do with for a while. Besides, this is just the household supply. The rest of the hardware is in the armory at the back of the garage.”

Pulling a Springfield M1A Super Match rifle from the rack, Hausmann pulled the breech open on the big military-style weapon. He reached up to the top shelf and took down a pair of magazines for the rifle. Each gray parkerised steel feed device held twenty rounds of 7.62×51mm ammunition. Slipping one of the magazines into a pouch on the stock of the big rifle, he locked the other into place in the magazine well in front of the trigger guard. An older-model 8-power Leupold telescopic sight was set along the top of the
weapon's receiver in a secure three-point mount.

Leaning the now loaded rifle back into its slot in the rack, Hausmann pulled his belt rig down from the left-hand door. The leather belt still held his Custom Firearms Inc. M1911A1 in its Blade Tech kydex holster. Reaching up to the ammunition shelf again, Hausmann took down a second kydex magazine holder, this one having two full eight-round stainless-steel magazines, the same style as Reaper was using, slipped into its pockets.

“Well,” Hausmann said as he attached the second pouch to his belt, “at least you didn't have to clean it.”

“I'm just glad I remembered the combination to the gun safe,” Reaper said as he leaned against the frame of the door.

Buckling the belt around his waist, Hausmann picked up the M1A and slung it from his shoulder. Shutting the safe doors, he rotated the locking lever and spun the combination dial. With the mirror panels shut, the space went back to looking like nothing more than an exercise room.

Passing through the poolroom on their way out of the house, Reaper stopped and picked up his M4A1 carbine and M1911A1 from the open Kalispel aluminum gun case sitting across the couch. Reaper had already cleaned the weapon and reloaded his magazines after firing it the night before. Since they were going to be riding in the close confines of the Prowler RTVs, Reaper had decided against carrying his M1911A1 in his Fobus C21 belt holster. The hidden inside pockets of his 5.11 tactical shirt were too small
to carry the full-sized M1911A1. So he had put on his 5.11 tactical vest.

The multipocket 5.11 tactical vest looked like just another sleeveless sportsman's or camera vest. But underneath the first layer of cloth was a hidden pocket on both sides of the vest, pockets that were lined with the pile material of Velcro. A holster that was lined with the nylon Velcro hook material held the M1911A1 securely inside the hidden left-hand carry compartment of the 5.11 vest. In the right-hand compartment, Reaper had secured the Velcro-sided double magazine pouch. Now the ex-SEAL was well armed with his customized Springfield Armory M1911A1 along with twenty-four rounds of high velocity .45 hollowpoints in three magazines. Two spare thirty-round magazines to the M4A1 were in pockets on the outside of the vest, in addition to the pair of magazines already locked into the weapon.

The two men headed outside to where the Prowler RTVs were parked. Both vehicles were relatively small, barely more than five feet tall. And each was less than eight feet long. A normal man could stand behind a Prowler and grab either side of the just over four-foot-wide vehicle.

The body of the Prowlers were made of formed steel tubing with expanded metal grids along the sides and across the front and back areas. Only the middle of the vehicles had a seat, with the rough travel capability of the RTVs indicated by the five-point safety harness on the operator's seats.

“Damn,” Hausmann said as they walked around the two vehicles, “these things do look like stripped-down
dune buggies, only smaller. Either that, or four-wheeler bikes on steroids.”

“They are a lot smaller than most all-terrain vehicles,” Reaper agreed. “But that helps them be a lot more maneuverable. Their center of gravity is a foot-and-a-half lower than most ATVs, and that makes them stable as hell on the run as well. These things are not modified off-road vehicles. They were purpose-built to protect the operator in military operations. They are just about the most rugged thing out there on wheels. They're a big improvement even on the fast attack vehicles (FAVs) the Teams were using just last year in Afghanistan. You can secure your rifle in that set of rubber-covered hooks in front of the operator's compartment.”

Hausmann slipped his M1A rifle into the cradle made by the two hooks Reaper pointed out. The weapon's mount was on the two roll cage supports on either side of the front of the Prowler. Two flat elastic straps slipped over the rifle and held it low, keeping it from blocking any of the operator's sight line, but ready for quick withdrawal and immediate use. Over at the other Prowler, Reaper was securing his M4A1 in the same weapon's mount.

“It does look like the driver is just about completely surrounded by metal when he sits inside this thing,” Hausmann said as he climbed into one of the Prowlers.

“So far, just about all of the Special Operation units and most of the services have been trying them out,” Reaper said. “There hasn't been an operator injury in a vehicle accident with one yet. So buckle up that harness and try not to be the first one ever hurt, okay?”

As Hausmann slipped the safety harness over his shoulders he noticed that both vehicles were just about the same, but that the one Reaper was climbing into had what looked like vertical wings on either side of the padded roll cage. The extensions had black cloth pads strung up inside their tubular frameworks.

“And just what the hell are those wings for?” Hausmann asked.

“Those are the side passenger racks,” Reaper said. “They're jump seats so that you can take two more people on board besides the operator. Only thing is that they have to sit on that unpadded metal grid instead of a seat. There's even a swing-arm gun mount here on the left side that'll accept an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon or a 7.62mm M240 machine gun if you want. The arm can be locked in place or rotated to give a 360-degree field of fire around the vehicle. They drive pretty much like a car. There's an automatic transmission, two or four-wheel drive, and standard driver's controls.”

“Geeze, Reaper,” Hausmann said, “I don't want to buy the damned thing. That gun mount does make me wish I had a nice big belt-fed machine gun to go in it. Something useful you know, just in case we find any of those bastards who ambushed us. Of course, with the way my head feels, I think I'd prefer an Abrams tank rather than this Prowler ATV thing.”

“That's an RTV,” Reaper said, “a rugged terrain vehicle. Not an all-terrain vehicle. And these Prowler's have an advantage over any tank made.”

“Yeah?” said Hausmann, “and what's that?”

“They're smaller, and lighter,” Reaper said with a
grin, “they get a hell of a lot better mileage—and they're here.”

With that, Reaper started up the 660 cc engine on his Prowler and fed it the gas. The wide rubber tires threw gravel as the agile little RTV darted forward. Spinning in a tight circle, Reaper pulled his vehicle up to the electronic gate and punched his code into the keypad. The gate opened and Reaper sped up the road.

Firing up his own Prowler, Hausmann took off after Reaper, passing through the gate well before it began its closing cycle. The two tan-colored vehicles hugged each curve and turn in the road, the heavy-duty suspension holding the RTVs steady as their deeply ridged run-flat tires tore through the gravel and dust.

“It's your ranch,” Reaper shouted as Hausmann pulled alongside of him, “you know the way best. I'll follow your lead.”

With a shouted “Okay,” Hausmann turned off the roadway and headed north to drive around the wall surrounding the ranch house compound. Driving around the grove of trees that lined the north wall of the compound, Hausmann headed down to the river and the ford there. The water over the ford was shallow enough for the two vehicles to cross, but the roll cage of the Prowlers offered little in way of protection.

The roll cages were strong, but very open. Both men slowed their vehicles down as they splashed into the river. The all-terrain tires of the Prowlers threw up foaming waves of water, but both men managed to get across the river without being too badly soaked.

Once up the opposite bank, Hausmann again led off.
Following the path they had ridden only the night before, the two men quickly came up to the railroad tracks and soon passed the path leading down to the rope bridge. As the rails and path they were on started to turn, Hausmann stopped his Prowler. Reaper pulled up and stopped alongside his friend.

“This is about as far as I remember going,” Hausmann said.

“Looks about right to me,” said Reaper. “The ambush came from that brush just past the curve. You can see the hoofmarks of the horses and dog tracks in the dirt over there.”

As Hausmann looked down to where Reaper was pointing, he could see the marks of shod hoofs pressed down into the dust. On either side of the hoofprints were the widely spaced padmarks made from the feet of two large, running dogs. Getting out of the Prowlers, both men took their long guns from the racks before walking over to the marks in the dirt. Crouching down, they followed the marks with their eyes as far as they could see.

“That's where your horse turned and headed into the trees,” Reaper said as he pointed to a scuffed area in the dirt.

“So they fired on us from beyond that turn,” Hausmann said, nodding toward the area ahead.

Getting up, the men slowly walked along the path. Within just a few feet, they came to a point on the path where both sets of hoofprints had turned back. Only the footprints of the dogs could be seen for a few steps before they turned off into the brush on either side of the path.

Twenty feet farther on, the two men were just at the edge of the brush growing heavily along the river side of the path. All around could be seen the shining cases of fired cartridge brass. The shells were mixed and scattered over a wide area. Both short-pistol caliber as well as much larger rifle brass shone and winked from where the sun struck them scattered around the area.

“Damn,” Hausmann said, “looks like somebody fought a small war around here.”

“Someone did,” Reaper said, “and it looks like the guys with the guns lost.”

Pointing to the leaves of a bush, Reaper indicated the dark brown stains of dried blood. After finding the first few splashes among the leaves, both men started to see bloodstains scattered all around the area. Whoever had ambushed them, had either shot at and hit each other in the dark, or the two rottweilers had created some serious carnage the night before. By the amount of brass Reaper could see, there had to have been at least two men armed with submachine guns and as many or more men carrying G3 or HK-91 rifles.

“Take a look at the brass,” Reaper said as he picked up a mixed handful of the very familiar caliber rifle and pistol cartridge cases.

Along the sides of the 9×19 millimeter and 7.62×51mm cases were multiple thin black marks running about half the length of the brass. The marks were spaced out evenly all around the circumference of the cases.

“All of this ammunition looks like it was fired from either a Heckler and Koch submachine gun or rifle,”
Reaper said. “Those are the only weapons I know of with the fluted chambers that mark up cases like this when they're fired. What drug runner wants to carry a heavy battle rifle like a G3 or HK-91?”

“None that I know of,” Hausmann said, “but both the G3 and the MP5 are issue weapons in the Mexican military.

Hausmann closely examined a handful of the fired cartridges.

“Here's something really interesting,” he said. “Look at the headstamps on these cases. This stuff is practically fresh from the arsenal.”

Around the bottom of each cartridge case were letters and numbers surrounding the central primer. They identified both who had made the rounds and when they had been manufactured. The letters on the base of the cartridge were
FNM
while the numbers were 03.

“FNM,” Reaper said. “That's Mexican isn't it?”

“Yup,” Hausmann agreed. “Mexican military. And it's usually in short enough supply that they don't sell it on the surplus market. Besides, that 03 means it was made just last year.”