Hostile Borders

by Dennis Chalker

  “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 Criminal 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 exa
mple 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.

  Sitting at the computer, Reaper went online while Hausmann and Manors took care of the dogs and the rest of the livestock. Not having a secure line meant Reaper had to go through some long procedures to get the information he had to the right people in D.C. It was early morning in Washington, but Reaper still didn’t want to try and make any direct phone calls just yet. He still wanted to think a little about what he would say, especially considering that he would be talking to another SEAL.

  The wheels were now in motion. The information that he and his friends had developed on the situation in Southern Arizona was sketchy at best. But he had the feeling at the back of his mind that this was a really important situation that had to be addressed by the right people. The actions of that sheriff’s deputy the night before had told Reaper that the local law enforcement might have a hard time dealing with exactly who, and what, was going on.

  Besides the professional considerations, there were personal ones he had to think about. This was not just an enemy who was very good, this was someone he had known closely at one time. And Santiago had known him as well. Reaper would want the best people he could find to help him on this one, and he knew just who they were and how much he could trust them.

  After careful thought, Reaper went back online and sent out some additional email. This was more of a warning order to his friends back in Michigan. There might be a very hot time coming up in the desert of Arizona, and they were cordially invited to the party. This was going to be a BYOB—bring your own booze—affair and he would let them know just what party favors they should get together.

  The sun was just starting to lighten the sky to the east as Reaper signed off on the computer. Hausmann had already hit the sack after telling Manors to grab one of the guest rooms. Heading to his own room, Reaper stripped off his 5.11 tactical shirt and pants. Changing to a fresh pair of 5.11 Academy shorts, he pulled on a well-worn T-shirt and tied on his running shoes.

  The cold early morning air felt good as Reaper started off on a run. The exercise would help clear his head for the work that he would have to do that day. He needed to get some sleep, but that could come later. Right now, the peace of the desert beckoned to him and he heard his shoes hit the sand and gravel in a rhythmic crunching beat.

  The peaceful image would have been a lot more complete if he hadn’t also felt the bounce of the M1911A1 pistol at his right rear hip. The weight of the weapon had a comforting feel of its own as he continued on his run.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Though SEALs are trained to be able to go long periods without sleep, that doesn’t mean they want to. Reaper well knew the value of being rested, and that was something he was going to have to make time for.

  After he came in refreshed from his run and had eaten breakfast, Reaper decided that getting some sleep was a priority. It had been an all-night operation the evening before and Reaper knew that things promised to only get busier. Grabbing some rest while he could, he crashed in his room and was sound asleep within a minute of his head hitting the pillow.

  It was close to noon when Reaper awoke. The house was silent as he headed downstairs. The dogs were there and greeted him enthusiastically, but no one else was around. A note in the kitchen told him that Manors had gone home and would be back that afternoon. Hausmann had to go in to nearby Sierra Vista to deal with the disposition of Duran and the care of his estate. He would also be back as soon as he could.

  Going into Hausmann’s office and logging on to the computer, Reaper started downloading the information that came in as a result of some of his earlier requests. At Homeland Security in Washington, Straker had been very interested in what Reaper had spotted at the mine. Not only was the appearance of the Arabs a serious development, the Santiago presence held personal importance. Straker had been a SEAL himself, and Santiago’s story was known to every SEAL in the community. The chance to bring in one of their own who had gone bad greatly appealed to the retired admiral.

  Attacking the pile of information that had come in, Reaper noted that it was a good thing that Hausmann had a high-speed connection as he was downloading hundreds of megabytes of information and photographs.

  Not having taken full advantage of the facilities of the Department of Homeland Security before, Reaper was surprised at the volume of information that was made available to him. This was more information, and was supplied in greater detail, than he usually worked with even when he was an active-duty SEAL. All of the Intelligence services and law enforcement had been tapped for what they could bring to the table. The picture of just what may have been happening along the Arizona border was filling out rapidly.

  The partial license plate and vehicle description Reaper had sent in had borne fruit. A Jeep Wrangler was registered to a Michael Sanskrit of Las Vegas. What had proved more interesting than knowing the owner was the record of a traffic ticket issued on the vehicle only a few days earlier. The driver who had been ticketed for speeding used a license under the name of Paul Stebbins. Sanskrit had no police record and nothing had come up under his name. The name of Stebbins brought up a police record, an FBI file, and even a Secret Service notation.

  Apparently Stebbins had been a student who found his calling not between the pages of books, but as a protester. He had a wide number of minor infractions in his police record, most of them involving trespass and making a public nuisance. It was after 9/11 that Stebbins had increased his enthusiasm as a protester, claiming that the U.S. was unjustly accusing Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda of having a hand in the destruction of the World Trade Center buildings.

  The Secret Service notation on Stebbins regarded an incident during the visit of President George W. Bush to New York and ground zero shortly after 9/11. Some New Yorkers—in particular a group of construction workers—had taken offense at a protest sign carried by Stebbins, and had removed both him and the offending sign from the area. The notation listed the results of the police investigation, and that no assault charges were pending against the workers as no one admitted to witnessing the incident. The fact that Stebbins had still been on probation resulting from a trespassing charge months earlier had also weighed in on the disposition of the case.

  This guy is not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, Reaper thought. The report didn’t list what the protest sign had said, but that was a time in New York when it wouldn’t take much to get a p
unch in the face from a construction worker, or damned near anyone else for that matter. Stebbins sounded like just the kind of guy that a terrorist group would use for cannon fodder; a disposable worker who would act as a cutout, eliminated after his useful time was over.

  After the New York incident, Stebbins had moved out West and taken up residence in Las Vegas. The report listed his employment record and the release given to him by the probation department. The address of Stebbins’s employer brought a smile to Reaper’s face. He had a much more direct source of information regarding this particular employer.

  Using a number from a card in his wallet, Reaper called Las Vegas. As he had suspected for that time of day, only a machine answered the phone. Leaving a message, Reaper hung up and went back to the task at hand.

  Even with the cable hookup, it took some time to download the huge photo files that had been sent. These were almost real-time satellite images of the immediate area of the border and were more than worth the wait. Hausmann’s computer laser printer was working overtime to crank out the pictures and files Reaper fed into it.

  In spite of the work he was doing, Reaper found a moment to smile about the situation. Not much longer than a year before, he had barely used a computer. Now he was finding it an indispensable tool for gathering intelligence and transferring information.

  Finally, Reaper started reading through the message that had come directly from Admiral Straker’s desk. There wasn’t going to be any time for smiles or pleasant thoughts after Reaper got through reading the admiral’s message. Working with a scratch pad and pencil, Reaper went over a simple plan of action. Revising, scratching out, and writing over, he came up with the outline of what and who he needed to help him.

  Once more getting on the phone, Reaper dialed a long distance number from memory. This conversation was a long and involved one. When he finally hung up the phone, Reaper knew he had committed himself to a major course of action. When Hausmann returned home a few hours later, he found Reaper in the dining room with maps, photos, and printouts scattered all around him.