by Dirk Patton
The Border Patrol agents relaxed slightly at that point, one of them handing the women and little girl bottles of water. He stepped up to the men and since their hands were restrained behind their backs, helped each of them drink until they shook their heads that they didn’t want any more.
While he did this, two more with rifles began walking down the arroyo in my direction. My pounding heart shifted into overdrive. I was hidden, but not well enough. If they came much closer, they would surely spot me. Panic nearly took control and caused me to run when a helicopter suddenly popped up over one of the hills we’d passed. It went into an orbit around the area and as it banked I got a good look at it. State police.
The two agents walking in my direction stopped and looked up, watching the aircraft circle the area. I had no doubt the helicopter was looking for me. One of them reached to his shoulder for a radio and began speaking into the microphone as he kept his eyes on the orbiting helicopter.
He was too far away for me to hear the conversation, but it went on for several minutes. They were probably discussing the possibility of the group that had just been caught having been responsible for the murder of the two cops. That was OK with me. The agents were distracted, both looking up.
When the helicopter was pointing away from my position, I moved. Crawling, I put as much distance between me and the arroyo as possible. I scrambled as fast as I could, keeping an eye on the sky as well as the two men. Freezing under a clump of bushes as the aircraft turned back in my direction, I moved again as soon as it curved away.
Within thirty yards of the dry wash, the vegetation thinned and became too small to use for concealment. I flattened myself into a shallow depression, screened by two small bushes. Thank God I’d worn jeans and a brown T-shirt. I blended in with the ground. I could just as easily have thrown on a white or red shirt that would stand out like a flag against the muted browns and greens of the desert floor.
The helicopter finally left the area after another twenty minutes of orbiting. The Border Patrol agents had walked far down the arroyo, well past my initial hiding place. If I hadn’t moved when I’d had the opportunity, they would have found me. I stayed right were I was, eyes poking up over the lip of the depression, watching them return to where the group was being held.
Once they rejoined the rest of the agents, it wasn’t long before I heard doors slamming and two engines starting. The helicopter had moved out of earshot and the desert was silent except for their vehicles. I could clearly hear them drive off to the north, the sounds of their motors and tires taking several minutes to completely fade.
I gave it another few minutes, then stood and ran to the arroyo and continued my trek north. The sun was still high in the sky, but it was sliding towards the western horizon. I checked my watch, but it was broken. It must have slammed against a rock when I dove for cover.
Pushing on, I tried to ignore my building thirst. I wasn’t in danger, yet, but it was hot. Had to be at least 110, and the humidity was very low, sucking every bit of moisture out of my body as I breathed the dry air. A hot breeze had sprung up, occasionally strong enough to pepper the right side of my face with sand.
It was several minutes later when the significance of this dawned on me. This part of the state was dust storm alley. Not just some gentle breezes blowing dust around to make pretty sunsets. No. These were every bit as big and potentially damaging as the massive haboobs that would sweep across the middle east.
Visibility drops to zero, or so close as to not matter. Traffic stops. Airports shut down. Not much moves. And this was the prime time of year for the storms to kick up, gathering dust from thousands of square miles of flat, open desert. With nothing to slow or stop them, they routinely roar into the Phoenix area during the summer.
If I got caught out in one, I’d be stuck. Unable to see well enough to even try walking. Sure, it would ground the helicopter and hamper the manhunt I was certain was underway, but as soon as it passed they’d be back on my tail. And if I was still out here after dark I didn’t like my odds of evading their technology advantage.
Stopping and turning, I shielded my eyes and looked to the southeast. At the very limit of my vision, I could see a brown smudge covering the horizon. Dust was coming. I had maybe an hour to get to town. Turning back to the north I resumed my run.
13
I walked on the shoulder of the road, dividing my attention between the storm and watching for approaching vehicles. I felt more or less safe. The cops might be conducting a manhunt, but they had no idea who I was or what I looked like. I hoped. Well, at least the odds were in my favor.
I’d made sure I didn’t have anything on me in the event I was stopped. The paper with the talker’s phone number, my Makarov pistol and expended brass were buried in a hole in the middle of the desert. I was confident they would never be found. Other than those incriminating items, all I had left was my phone, wallet with a few hundred bucks in it and the keys to my apartment.
The arroyo had intersected pavement about a mile and a half north of where the Border Patrol had taken the small group I’d encountered into custody. I was pretty sure I was west of where I needed to be, so after a few minutes of careful thought I’d decided to strike out on the pavement and try to thumb a ride. But there hadn’t been any traffic.
“Until now,” I said to myself when the hiss of tires on asphalt reached my ears.
Turning to the west, I squinted into the late afternoon sun to see the approaching vehicle. Heat shimmers coming off the baking blacktop created an optical illusion, making it seem as if the old pickup was floating above the surface of the road. As it drew closer, the tires resolved in my vision, and I stuck my arm out and held my thumb in the air.
I knew the driver saw me. He moved slightly away from the edge, towards the centerline to give plenty of room. A few moments later he flashed past without slowing or even looking in my direction. Sighing, I turned and kept trudging east.
Looking up at the horizon I saw that the dust storm was noticeably closer than the last time I checked. Two minutes ago. And it looked like a monster. It was probably still twenty miles away, but the leading edge of the solid, roiling brown cloud completely filled the horizon and soared high into the sky. I knew powerful winds would be pushing it and estimated I had no more than twenty minutes before I was completely engulfed in its fury.
I turned at the sound of another car approaching, my breath catching when I saw the outline of a police car silhouetted against the lowering sun. Turning back east and continuing to walk, I didn’t stick my thumb out, hoping the cop would drive by. But of course, he didn’t.
The cruiser, belonging to the Department of Public Safety – what Arizona calls the state police - slowed as it drew closer, gliding past me at an idle. I looked over and met eyes with the officer driving. Without thinking, I raised my right hand and waved. He didn’t wave back, just accelerated enough to get thirty yards past me before pulling over and turning on his overhead lights. I could see him speaking on the radio, looking at me in his mirror. I stopped where I was, waiting. Panicked. Scared out of my mind.
It didn’t take long for him to finish his radio call, then the driver’s door popped open and he stepped out. He was about my age, and looked as tough as old shoe leather. Thin, but the kind of whipcord thin that has a lot of strength behind it. His hand was on the butt of his holstered pistol as he stepped to the back of his car.
“Sir, please step to the side of the car and place your hands on the fender,” he called, sunlight glinting off his mirrored glasses.
“Why? What did I do?” I called back, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this.
“Sir, now. Step to the side and keep your hands in sight. I’m not going to ask you again.”
With a sigh of resignation, I moved my hands away from my body and slowly walked the short distance to the idling police car. He pointed where he wanted me, stepping back and keeping some part of the vehicle’s sheet metal between us. I di
d what he told me, winding up on the passenger side with my hands resting on the burning hot rear fender.
He moved around the car, circling wide until he was coming up behind me. I started to turn my head to keep him in sight, but he barked at me to face forward. I complied, and a moment later a strong hand pushed on the back of my neck and shoved my upper body forward across the trunk.
“Do you have anything on you that I should know about?” He asked from behind me.
“No,” I said. “What the hell is wrong? I didn’t do anything.”
“I’m going to search you. We’ll talk in a minute. Do not try to raise up or take your hands off the vehicle. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I said.
He searched me thoroughly. Removed my phone, wallet and keys and placed them next to my face on the trunk of the cruiser. When he was finished, he picked my wallet up and stepped away.
“You can stand up now,” he said after having returned to the driver’s side of his car.
My wallet was in his hands and he began looking through it. He rifled through the cash, then looked at a couple of slips of paper that were tucked away. One of them was my boss’s cell phone in case I needed to call in sick, the other my VFW card. He put them back and extracted my drivers license from behind a clear plastic window.
His eyes flicked from the photo on my ID to my face, making sure they matched.
“Long way from Phoenix, Mr. Tracy. What are you doing out here?”
“I was hiking in Casa Grande Mountain Park,” I said, having had a few moments to think up a story. “I got lost and came out a mile or so back down the road. Trying to get back to town where my wife’s supposed to pick me up.”
“Hiking without water or a hat? No pack?”
“I ran out of water a few hours ago and didn’t feel like carrying an empty pack. Left it behind. What the hell is going on?”
I was making it up on the fly, now. Unsure what the right response was. Should I be indignant that I was being treated like a criminal, or should I be polite and cooperative. I decided to settle for a little of both.
“What am I going to find out if I run your license?” He asked.
“Nothing. Am I under arrest? I just want to get to town before that storm hits.”
I hooked a thumb over my shoulder and saw him glance at the swiftly approaching wall of dust. Saw something in his eyes. He didn’t want to get caught out here any more than I did.
“You’re being detained at the moment,” he finally said. “Go stand in front of my car.”
“Seriously? I haven’t done a damn thing!”
“Sir, we can wrap this up here, or I can put you in cuffs and take you to the station. Which would you prefer?”
I looked at his face and saw the sincerity and determination. With a sigh, I nodded and walked to the front of the cruiser and leaned my ass against the heavy duty push bar. I heard him open the door, then the car shifted slightly when he got in. The door closed and the locks thunked into place.
Resisting the urge to turn and look through the windshield, I crossed my arms and looked at the horizon. Ten minutes and we’d be in zero visibility. Could I stretch things out that long? Escape under cover of the storm? Maybe. But what was the point? He was calling my name in right now. That meant there was a record of me being in the area. I was fucked.
A couple of minutes later the door opened and the car shifted again when he stepped out.
“Mr. Tracy?”
I turned my head to look at him without moving my ass off the push bar.
“You’re good to go. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I shook my head, playing the role of aggrieved, upstanding citizen. Standing up, I headed for the back of the car to retrieve my belongings.
“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about,” I said, shoving my property into pockets.
“There was an incident a few miles from here,” he said. “We’re looking for people that might have been involved.”
“Un huh,” I said, shaking my head and turning to continue my way into town.
“Hang on,” he said before I’d taken more than a couple of steps.
Heart falling, I stopped and turned to look at him.
“Saw your VFW card. Sandland?”
“Iraq. Two tours,” I said.
“Did two myself. With the Corps.” he said, meaning he was a Marine.
I nodded, unsure what he wanted.
“Look,” he said. “That fucking haboob is going to hit any minute. Where were you supposed to meet your wife?”
I looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide if this was a trick or not. Making my decision, and hoping it was the right one, I named a truck stop adjacent to the one Monica was waiting at.
“Hop in back,” he said, nodding at the car. “I’ll get you there in five minutes.”
“I’m good,” I said. “I was infantry. I’m used to walking.”
“In that?” He asked, pointing at the front edge of the storm which was now within a couple of miles of where we stood.
“Actually, yes,” I said, and couldn’t help grinning.
He grinned back and gestured at the car. Nodding, I opened the rear passenger door and got in. And was immediately claustrophobic in the confines of the rear seat of a police car. He came around and shut the door, which had bars over the window and no handle on the inside. Fuck me, I hope I didn’t just make the second biggest mistake of my life.
14
The storm hit a minute after we started driving. Wind buffeted the cruiser, rocking it violently. Dust and sand were driven against us so hard it sounded like the paint was being blasted off the sheet metal. Visibility was poor, but we were still in the leading edge of the cloud and it hadn’t dropped to zero. Yet.
Gunning the powerful engine, the cop navigated the empty streets of Casa Grande with ease. All the locals had already found a place to button themselves up and ride out the storm. Wind driven debris tumbled down the roads, actually passing us at one point. The older traffic lights that were only suspended from cables swung wildly, one of them twisting all the way around before snapping free and crashing to the pavement.
“Going to be a bad one,” the cop said.
“Looks like,” I answered, just to be saying something.
“You ever miss it?”
“Miss what?” I asked, even though I knew what he meant.
“The war.”
“No,” I lied.
“Me either,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth or not.
We were silent for the rest of the drive. It didn’t take long, despite the steadily diminishing visibility. He had the radio turned up and I could already hear calls going out to units being sent to accidents on one of the two freeways in the area. Then we pulled into a massive truck stop.
“See your wife’s car?” He asked, slowing to a crawl.
“No,” I said, pretending to look around what I could see of the lot. “She might have heard about the storm and be waiting for it to pass before she drives down. Thanks for the ride. I’ll hang out inside while I wait.”
He nodded and steered for the large store-restaurant combination on the far side of the gas pumps. Pulling in to a handicapped spot, the only one not occupied, he jumped out and ran around the back of the car to open the door for me.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, reflexively sticking my hand out when I was standing.
“No worries,” he said, shaking mine briefly. “Take care.”
With that, he dashed around the back of the car and jumped behind the wheel. Ducking my head and squinting my eyes, I ran for the entrance. An employee was manning the doors, trying to keep the wind from ripping them off their hinges. When I appeared out of the storm, she pushed one open and moved aside.
I stepped into clean, air conditioned comfort. Turning, I could just make out the shape of the cruiser as it backed out of the spot. A moment later it disappeared i
nto the storm. Wanting to give the cop plenty of time to clear the area before I went to find Monica, I bought two bottles of water and drained both of them in less than thirty seconds. Buying two more, I shoved them into a plastic bag and moved back to the doors.
The storm was in full swing. The wind howled and the girl that was watching the doors was struggling to keep them from being torn out of her hands. The first row of pumps, no more than twenty yards from where I stood, were invisible. All I could see was brown dust.
An idea struck me and I turned and went back into the store. I asked at the counter, the old man working the register pointing out the aisle I was looking for. A couple of minutes later I was back at the doors, brand new goggles firmly seated on my face. I helped the girl control the door as I stepped outside, then pushed as she pulled to get it closed again.
It was an adventure crossing first one, then another large parking lot in the storm. The wind was a physical force, a fierce creature trying to knock me over and carry me away. I had the collar of my shirt pulled over my mouth and nose, but was still pretty sure I was inhaling a good quantity of dirt.
Ten minutes later I reached Monica’s aging Honda. It was still parked in the same spot where I’d met her earlier in the day. Stumbling up, I banged on the window and a moment later slipped inside when she reached across and unlocked the door. As soon as I was seated, she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed as tightly as she could.
“What happened,” she asked after several minutes of holding each other. “A few hours ago there were sirens going off everywhere. I was starting to think I’d never see you again.”
I sat back in the passenger seat and opened one of the bottles of water. The Honda was idling, the air conditioning on high. As it blew across my bare arms I realized I had a bad sunburn. I may work outdoors in the sun all day, but I wear long sleeves to protect my skin. When I got dressed in the wee hours of the morning, I hadn’t expected to be wandering around the desert.
