Burn Zone

by James O. Born

  After dressing and hiding his valuables from the sporadic cleaning crew, he decided he could walk to the library about six blocks from the hotel. The big U-Haul truck attracted too much attention and was difficult to navigate through the narrow Louisiana streets. With summer over, the temperatures were nice, and the sun was out. Sleeping or working during the day had given him a complexion like a vampire. The sun would give him a little color. He needed to look as mainstream as possible. His hair was already there. For the first time in several years, he had had to run a comb through it when he woke up.

  Years earlier he had shaved his head so the Hammerskins would look at him more favorably. The working-class party of white people had proven to be an active, solid organization. Too bad they got an idea of some of his interests. Too much beer one night had made him show one of the longtime Hammerskin veterans the wrong website, and, after splitting his lip with a quick right hand, the man had informed him that he should not now or in the future claim membership in the Hammerskins.

  Before that he had been in the National Alliance, but they were too concerned with race purity. They were looking for a holy war that Ike knew wouldn't come, and if it did he didn't really want to fight it. He'd be content to stop immigration and have the country take a serious look at people from outside the borders. Besides, the National Alliance expected a lot of work out of its members. He had a job. He didn't need a second one.

  He had met up with some members of the Phineas Priesthood, but quickly realized crazy was crazy no matter what race you were. The members of the priesthood were just too extreme and expected everyone who joined to be the same way. They might really do something to make people notice one day, but he knew what it would take to change things.

  He entered the small library and looked over to the round table with six computers available for library patron use. He had already used the computer to check for messages three times. The library only required him to use his first name on the log and only then if there was a waiting list. This morning, things looked pretty quiet. The reference librarian just pointed to an empty computer as he walked up. He nodded and smiled at her.

  He typed in Yahoo.com and then tracked his way to Yahoo mail. He entered his user name and password. His name was a variation of World-changer, and the password was freedom. He was not the only one in possession of these phrases. Since it had been widely reported that messages passed over the Internet could be monitored, he shared the account with the president, Mr. Jessup, and the beaner, Mr. Ortíz. He would enter the account, then check messages that had been saved but not sent. That way no one ever looked at the messages, and they were absolutely secure. Only the three men knew it. The process was foolproof.

  He found one message. It simply said "On the way. Ship-Flame of Panama-O."

  Now things would get interesting.

  13

  ALEX DUARTE NODDED AS HIS FRIEND FÉLIX WALKED UP THE hallway to the main administrative office of the Port of New Orleans. He shook his hand and glanced over his shoulder at the tall, well-built man behind Félix.

  Félix said, "Rocket, this is Colonel Lázaro Staub." He turned to the colonel and said, "This is Alex Duarte from the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."

  "Mucho gusto, señor Duarte." He bowed slightly. "Me honra satisfacerlo."

  Duarte looked at the fifty-year-old man and shrugged. He shrugged so frequently he could put emotion into each shrug. This one was an apology shrug.

  Staub shook his head and said in English, "I sorry. I thought you were Hispanic."

  "I am."

  "Where were you born?"

  "Florida, but my family is from Paraguay."

  "And you speak no Spanish?"

  "I'm working on it."

  "No matter. I practice the English anyway."

  They settled in a conference room, where Félix started by asking about Lina.

  Duarte said, "She took off with another FBI agent on some mission here in New Orleans."

  "You learn anything about their source? Pale Girl?"

  "Nothing." He kept his eyes from darting to Staub. He knew Félix wasn't authorized to hear about Pale Girl. He also knew that a visiting cop from Panama shouldn't even know there was a source of information related to the case.

  Félix said, "The Colonel here was a lifesaver. He had men load the container onto the ship and got the ship out right on time. It'll be here by midnight."

  "That fast?"

  "Yeah, less than two days on the seas. The port in Colón is about eight hundred miles from New Orleans."

  Duarte nodded. "What about Gastlin?"

  Félix looked down, maybe the first time Duarte had seen him less than energetic. "No sign of him. We got the DEA guys and the Colonel's cops all looking for him."

  "How do we find out who the pot in the container goes to without him?"

  "We already thought of that. Won't work. We figured we'll hold the load for a day or two to see if he surfaces. If not, the effort isn't a total zero. We still have a direct buy from Ortíz."

  "But still no ID?"

  Félix shook his head.

  Staub spoke up. "We have been trying to identify this Ortíz for two years. He is very difficult. It is not so easy to find wealthy men who wish to remain unknown."

  Duarte nodded and for the first time noticed a slight twitch in the colonel's left eye.

  ***

  Lina returned in the evening. She acted as if she had been gone an hour instead of nearly ten. The introductions were made, and Duarte noticed two things that he might have been too dense to pick up on a few months earlier.

  First, Lina's hand lingered in Colonel Staub's handshake, and she gazed directly into his eyes. Second, Duarte realized that Félix wasn't happy about her reaction.

  Duarte kept his mouth shut and minded his own business, just like he tried to always do.

  Once they were seated at a conference table waiting for the Flame of Panama to arrive, Félix looked across at Lina and said, "So where you been all day?"

  "Errands."

  "Like what?" His tone was sharper than normal.

  She didn't answer.

  Félix wouldn't let it go. "So your errands are classified, too?"

  Lina flashed a glare at him.

  Duarte cut in and said, "Let's figure out what to do with the load if Gastlin doesn't turn up."

  Staub said, "It is safe at the port, no?"

  They all nodded.

  "Will your customs officers search it or ask questions?"

  Félix said, "No. We'll bring it into the secure area. It'll be in with so many other containers no one will ever even notice it."

  Duarte thought about logistics and said, "If we look at it in the port, someone will see us. It may tip them off."

  Félix said, "We'll check it on the boat. Once it's off-loaded, they won't know which container we checked." His cell phone rang. Félix spoke quietly for a few moments and then looked up at the others. "We can do it right now if you'd like. The ship just docked."

  ***

  F lame of Panama itself was an older freighter that appeared to be painted brown until Duarte looked closely and realized it was rust, a deep, well-earned rust that seemed to change the ship's personality. If the upper deck were white and lower hull black, the entire look would lift the crew's spirits. The way it looked now, even sailors had to think they had drawn the short straw.

  No one even challenged them as they followed a customs inspector up the gangplank. The round woman in a Department of Homeland Security uniform waddled up the plank and then pointed to a lower container. There were two containers stacked on it and several on each side.

  A giant padlock with a tiny keyhole sealed the container.

  "We can cut it," said the customs inspector.

  Félix shook his head. "No, we don't want to draw attention."

  They waited while the customs inspector retrieved a set of keys from the ship's first mate. The first mate stayed back out of the way and didn'
t seem to want to interact with the group by the container. Duarte saw that he was a young man with a thick, short beard. His bushy eyebrows and protruding teeth gave him a slightly Neanderthal look. The man's eyes met his for a moment. Then the first mate slipped off.

  The doors opened out like the double doors to a ballroom. The overwhelming smell of damp marijuana hit Duarte like a linebacker. Félix and the customs inspector shined in large flashlights, and they all stepped into the dank freight container.

  Duarte had never seen so much illegal substance in one place. It was one thing to hear someone say "twenty thousand pounds"; it was another to see bale after bale stacked on each side of the container. There was a passageway between each stack to the rear wall. Each bale weighed about four hundred pounds.

  Something crawled across the top of the highest bale.

  Duarte jumped to the other side.

  Félix said, "Always get rats or big spiders in these loads."

  That didn't make Duarte feel any better.

  Félix turned to the customs inspector. "No one'll bother this?"

  "Not over in the restricted area."

  "And you won't let on what we're doing?"

  "Not until I'm cleared to. You guys bring in loads all the time. Used to be, before 9/11, our customs agents arranged for loads, too. Now they got shifted to immigration and cargo crimes."

  Félix turned to the whole group. "Let's let them get this thing unloaded and secured."

  Duarte was the last to hop out onto the deck. For some reason, he felt like looking around for the first mate. There was something about the hairy young man that didn't seem right. He helped shove one of the heavy doors back into place, then watched as Félix set the big padlock again. The heavy frame hung down.

  "Damn," said Félix.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I set the keyhole facing the door." He tried to lift the lock, but was unable to unlock it. "Screw it. It'll be easier in the daylight if we ever have to open the thing again." As he turned, he added, "If we ever see Gastlin again."

  14

  JOHN "JUAN" MORALES HAD ASKED THE DEA TO TRANSFER HIM to Panama for a couple of reasons. The extra pay was nice, just like the cheap cost of living, but the real reason was he got to pick his post of duty when he got back to the States. That was about the only way he thought he might get back to Jackson, Mississippi. He'd been assigned to St. Louis right out of the academy and tried to use his ability to speak Spanish, as weak as it was then, to get to New Orleans or Atlanta. He liked being close to his family and his father, a Cuban transplant who taught economics at Mississippi State. His mom, a former Miss Magnolia, didn't speak any Spanish and really had a poor grasp of English, too, but John had taken after his father and learned just enough Spanish to pass a fluency exam.

  When he saw the posting for Panama, he put in for it, and to his surprise found himself living in the capital city a few months later.

  So far he had found that most of his responsibilities were related to running errands for the guys in the States. They'd need some documentation about a resident or maybe a photograph of a boat docked at one of the marinas. It wasn't too hard, and he was just biding his time to go home anyway.

  Right now, as the city slowed down and even the prostitutes started to come in off their perches on the street corners in lower-class neighborhoods, John was starting to get discouraged about finding the snitch that had given Félix Baez the slip. Morales had been in the DEA academy with Félix, two of only three Hispanics in the whole class at the Quantico, Virginia, facility. They had bonded, and Félix's easygoing manner and positive attitude had gotten John through some long weeks. His experience as a Mississippi state trooper had not prepared him for the challenges of tough academics, long hours and rigorous physical training.

  John Morales had already checked his sources at the airport; no taxi driver had seen the portly American. His stuff was still in the cheap hotel room the DEA had supplied him. He had not been admitted to any hospital. John was starting to think he was holed up with a prostitute somewhere in the southwestern section of the city. That was why he was prowling those streets now.

  He felt his cell phone vibrate and saw it was a local cop who was a friend of his.

  "Diego, what'd you got?" he said in his heavily accented Spanish.

  "Juan, my friend, I think we found your American."

  "Great, where?"

  "The main dump on the north side."

  "Oh shit. How long has he been dead?"

  "Hard to say."

  "You sure it's him? You saw his photo."

  "Still hard to say."

  "Why? If you found him."

  "We found most of him."

  John froze in his tracks. "Most of him?"

  "No head, his left hand is missing and three of his fingers on his right hand." There was a pause and the police investigator said, "Never mind, I think one of my guys just found one of his fingers. No luck on the hand or head."

  "Jesus, Diego, what happened to him?"

  "My guess is he crossed the wrong man."

  "Where you gonna take him?"

  "The main morgue."

  "Will you let me know the autopsy results?"

  There was a silence. Then Diego said, "Unless we have a suspect and motive and some cops who are interested, I doubt there'll be an autopsy. This isn't CSI Miami."

  John didn't want to insult him, so he said nothing. He knew things were different here in Central America. "Keep me posted. I'll check with you tomorrow."

  John Morales started home, but realized his stomach was a little upset. He wondered if he went to Staub and the national police, if they would be any help. He checked his watch and realized he better wait until tomorrow to call Félix. There was nothing he could do now anyway.

  ***

  Cal Linley had worked for the Port of New Orleans for sixteen years. In that time, he had seen everyone with a skin color darker than his move up the ladder. Here he was, still a miserable off-loader. Sure, the pay was okay, but he had to work shifts and rarely had a weekend off. That worked to his benefit now. He stood in front of the container from Flame of Panama with a key for the padlock direct from the president, Mr. Jessup, who would be very happy with his efforts. He didn't know what they wanted out of the container, but he had detailed instructions on how to retrieve it and whom to give it to. The big shits at the National Army of White Americans didn't think he was fit to know exactly what he was retrieving from the container. He didn't care. He'd been told it was a step in the start of a revolution. He liked that idea. Set the country going in the right direction for a change. Not listening to them Commies at CNN or 60 Minutes who always made it sound like regular people were stupid and the United States of America caused all the grief in the world.

  Now he paused in the so-called restricted area. He wasn't worried. The lone security guard was also a member of the faithful, a cop who'd lost his job because he'd used some instant justice on some punk who was stealing stereos out of cars. When he'd appeared in front of the all-colored review board, he'd just resigned on the spot. Been here at the port ever since.

  Cal found the container, a twenty-footer set in the corner of the restricted area. He fumbled for the key and, with the flashlight tucked under his right arm, had to lift the lock because some moron had put the keyhole facing in. He flipped the lock upside down, then shoved in the small key. With a little twisting, he shook the lock free of the doors. He had to turn his wide frame sideways to make it down the aisle between the nasty bales stacked on each side. He realized they were bales of pot, but that was none of his business, nor was he interested in why pot was in with this cargo.

  He squeezed through to the rear wall and tapped it with the long screwdriver he had brought with him. The hollow twang echoed in the container. He looked around, surprised at the volume of the tap.

  He stooped low and unscrewed the thick, heavy screw holding the two halves of the wall together. He reached for the upper screw, but was short
by a foot. He tugged one bale of pot over and stood on it, easily reaching the upper screw. The sides of the wall then slipped out and revealed another two feet of the container.

  Tucked to one side was the package he had been told to retrieve. It was completely covered in a wooden crate. He nudged it and nodded. They had told him a little more than six hundred pounds.

  He shoved back the bale of pot and then walked out to his pickup truck parked at the entrance to the restricted area. He pulled the old open-bed Ford next to the container and then lowered the tailgate. He had an appliance handcart and slipped it out. He had to do some fancy negotiating to slip the cart between the bales of pot, but found that with the crate on it to steady the cart, it was easy to pull out. He left the crate strapped to the cart and was able to tip it into the bed of his truck. The crate was about four feet long and two feet wide. He had no clue what could be in there that might start a revolution, but he was going to get it to the kid from Omaha and get it to him now.

  He went back to the container and tried to reset the false wall, but found that he had popped the bracket holding one side out of the container wall. He just lugged out the two pieces of sheet metal and stuck them in the truck as well.