The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  “What I’m hearing is that a laser can be focused on a target, and the mortar projectile follows the laser to a specific landing point,” said Clive. “Is that right?”

  “It is,” said Sally.

  “How does the hand held laser work?” asked Clive.

  “It’s actually pretty interesting,” said Zeke, taking over the explanation. “When you point a laser at something, say a car or a house, the laser light is dispersed, reflected into the air in a straight line from the object. The smart mortar projectile- in this case most likely housing drugs- has sensors attached that pick up the reflected laser beams and hone in on their origin, the target. But instead of exploding on impact, they use their wings and float to a landing at the place the laser indicates.”

  “Sounds like they’re reusable,” said Clive.

  “Most of the time, yes. You’d just need to get the projectile back over the border, sans drugs, of course,” said Sally.

  “How much do they hold?” asked Clive.

  “About eleven pounds of ordinance,” said Sally. “Or whatever cargo.”

  “And what does something like that cost?” asked Clive.

  “You can buy one for about twenty-five thousand for the mortar. Projectiles are about ten thousand dollars each.”

  “A small investment to bring about a million four hundred thousand dollars worth of drugs into the country,” said Zeke, calculating quickly. “They most likely cut the cocaine after it’s here, in the states.”

  “Also, the mortar can be disassembled after it’s been fired. It comes apart into pieces and can be concealed and carried off,” said Sally.

  “So a couple of quick explosions, sort of muted, and the bad guys take the mortar apart and walk away. Doesn’t the mortar get hot?” asked Clive.

  “Two or three shots aren’t enough to really heat up the barrel,” said Sally, “but if it’s hot, they pour water on it to cool it down. That wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “How much can they move?” Clive asked, warming to the topic.

  “I’m not certain, but it looks like they can probably move about twenty-four kilos per shot. Like Zeke said, a million and a half dollars worth of the drugs, uncut. Per mortar projectile.”

  “So several million dollars a night for a few minutes’ work. Nice,” said Clive.

  “How do they get their money?” asked Clive, puzzling it together.

  “I don’t think they send the mortar projectiles to their buyers,” said Zeke. “I suspect they send it over the wall to someone else in their gang, who then arranges to have it stepped on and sold here in the States.”

  “Makes sense,” said Clive, nodding.

  * * *

  “You’ve got to look at it as a multinational business. And a very well funded multinational, at that,” said Clive.

  Zeke nodded. “It wouldn’t take long for a cartel to diversify, particularly with the kind of money they’re dealing with.”

  “Quite so. If your singular mission is to get drugs from Colombia to the U.S., you’d want to expand laterally and develop several distribution channels,” said Clive.

  “Redundant systems. Then if one or two are shut down, you can continue to profit using the others. In the meantime you work at rebuilding the ones that were shut down. It seems like it would evolve like Fedex or Amazon have evolved, becoming more efficient and faster to move the cash flow as quickly as possible. It’s become all about the logistics.”

  “Indeed,” said Clive. “They probably use Fedex as a business model…”

  “The U.S. border is their biggest obstacle,” said Zeke. “Colombia to Mexico is rather simple, land, sea or air, with the cartel generally providing protection along the way.”

  “You’re saying that the focus of their efforts is in the last ten percent of the journey? Getting the drugs over the border?” asked Clive.

  “I’d think so,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  They were having drinks at the Elephant and Castle, a British themed restaurant not far from The Agency offices. It was late afternoon busy.

  Clive was working on a Bramble cocktail while Zeke sipped a tumbler full of Woodford Reserve on the rocks. The server approached the table.

  “How’re we doing here?” she asked. She was a young-looking girl, perhaps college aged, wearing the uniform of the pub, a short tartan skirt, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a matching tartan tie. Her blonde hair was braided.

  “This is a lovely Bramble,” said Clive. “My compliments to the bartender.”

  “She said you’d recognize her by her signature drink,” said the girl.

  “Ah, Amelia,” said Clive. “Is she working? I’ll stop by and thank her on the way out.”

  Zeke looked at Clive. “You’re still at it, I suppose,” he said. “Dating the younger ones.”

  “I can’t help it, you know. I seem to attract them.”

  “I’m thinking they have ‘daddy issues’,” said Zeke. He sipped his Woodford.

  “Perhaps,” said Clive. “But this one is Irish, interested, and legal. Can’t see how I can say ‘No’.”

  “I remember Amelia,” said Zeke. “She’s too feisty for you. Too sassy. Too much to handle.”

  Clive smiled and winked at Zeke.

  Zeke shook his head. “It’s your business,” he said under his breath.

  “So back to the drug transport for a moment,” said Clive, clearly changing the subject. “There are only so many ways to get something across the U.S.-Mexican border.”

  “Sure, it’s either over, under, around or through the wall,” said Zeke.

  “True. Let’s see,” said Clive. “Around would imply something oceanic or possibly in the Gulf of Mexico. What does the Border Patrol have there?”

  “Marine Interdiction Agents. If you think about it, the ocean and the gulf might be some of the easiest areas to patrol. They most likely have a concentration of troops as well as drones and cameras and satellite images from all over those areas, from Imperial Beach up to San Diego on the Pacific, and from Las Palomas up to South Padre Island in the Gulf.”

  “It does seem that the Border Patrol has had plenty of time to dig in, in those areas,” said Clive.

  “Technically, the border extends eighteen miles into the Pacific Ocean, and twelve miles into the Gulf of Mexico. They push it out quite a ways, though. But yes, I’m sure they’ve got that part mostly under control. Radar, sonar, cameras, interdiction, air surveillance…it would be tough to get across in a rogue vessel. But, the technology is constantly changing.”

  “It is indeed. So we’re left with over, under, and through,” said Clive, sipping his drink.

  “Through is easiest, I think,” said Zeke. There are holes in the existing walls, places that were cut out to let illegals cross the border. Many of them haven’t been repaired yet. Mostly they’re in unpopulated areas, out in the desert in areas with less Border Patrol staffing, fewer patrols per mile of border.”

  “How long is this bloody wall, anyhow?” asked Clive. “It seems to have taken on a life of its own in the news recently.”

  “The Mexican border is 1,954 miles,” said Zeke. “The part that has a wall is about 650 miles. But a lot of the border area is desert, with nothing nearby when you cross into the U.S.A. They actually built the wall in the areas of the greatest number of crossings, either by immigrants or drugs.”

  “As you’d expect,” said Clive.

  At that moment a tall, leggy red-headed girl wearing the restaurant uniform approached their table.

  “Mr. Clive,” she said. “How did I do?”

  “I take it you’re talking about this drink, Amelia. You did a splendid job with it.”

  “It’s not your fav, the Sipsmith and tonic,” she said. “But it’s a nice contrast, I’d say.”

  “You’re right, my dear. It’s a worthwhile dalliance,” said Clive.

  “Is that how you think of me, Mr. Clive?” she asked, suddenly looking serious. “As a worthwhile dallianc
e?”

  “Oh, my, no,” said Clive. “Where would you get that idea? Surely not!”

  “Well, it’d better be that way,” she said, as she turned and moved away, her slim hips gliding in an exaggerated sway. Clive watched her until she was out of sight.

  * * *

  Clive sipped his Bramble and thought for a moment. “So,” he said, “what do we have as far as ‘over the wall’?”

  “That gets creative,” said Zeke, settling back into the rhythm of their conversation. “There are lots of ways to get drugs over the wall, right?”

  “Seems to be,” said Clive.

  “Throw it over. Most of the fencing is between 18 and 24 feet high, not insurmountable,” Zeke said.

  “Or use a catapult. Maybe a hot air balloon, or a remote controlled airplane or a drone. Possibly a helicopter?” asked Clive.

  “Possibly. Either remote controlled or pilot driven. And ultra-lights. And single-engine planes. It’s all been tried,” said Zeke.

  “What border defenses are in place? Over the land, I mean,” asked Clive.

  “Besides the areas that have a wall in place,” said Zeke, “the Border Patrol uses drones, ATVs, UAVs, Hummers and SUVs, helicopters, and small planes. They use listening devices and radar and mobile video surveillance systems and…”

  “Mobile what?” asked Clive.

  “Video surveillance systems. They have stationary units and mobile units mounted on trucks. They can scan the terrain for miles. And they can be used day and night.”

  “Hmm,” said Clive.

  “And many, many cameras, some infrared. They’re actually using a facial recognition system now.”

  “You said UAVs? Unmanned Aerial Vehicles? They’re serious, then,” said Clive. “Not like the buggers in Great Britain. They welcome in anyone from the European Union, even the terrorists, it seems.”

  “The Border Patrol has airboats, jeeps, and access to satellites for imagery. And the wall, in some more urban areas, is actually triple layered fencing plus a vehicle fence.”

  “It sounds like a military operation,” said Clive.

  “It’s just been going on a long time,” said Zeke. “The border patrol was formed back in the mid-1910s to keep Chinese immigrants from crossing into the United States. They made it an official federal agency in the mid-1920s.”

  “So, over the wall is a pretty wide open category,” said Clive. “What about the ‘under’?”

  “Yeah, that’s been pretty much limited to tunnels at this point. But I’m betting there are a lot of them. Over 500,000 illegals cross the Mexican border every year. Tunnels would be one of the easiest and least detectable ways to get in,” said Zeke.

  “How do they detect the bloody things?” asked Clive, emphasizing the word “do”.

  “There’s really no good way,” said Zeke. “They shoot radar into the ground, looking for tunnels, but the variables are too great for a reasonable success rate. As it turns out the earth tends to keep her secrets.”

  “Other than discovering the tunnels, how does the Border Patrol defend against them?”

  “Once they identify a tunnel, and they’re mostly in urban areas, they usually send a drone in to explore. The drone sends back camera images from the tunnel, allowing the agents to explore with minimum risk,” said Zeke.

  Clive whistled softly. “So how many tunnels are there, would you say?” he asked.

  “No way to know,” said Zeke. “But hundreds would be a reasonable guess.”

  Clive shook his head. “Over the wall, perhaps the most defenses.”

  “And the most detection,” Zeke said.

  “Through the wall, but only in isolated areas, hard areas to transverse.”

  “And the Border Patrol’s vehicle detection is second to none. They recently installed ‘vehicle scanning equipment’ that looks for hard narcotics and marijuana. It’s essentially an x-ray machine for your car. The border crossings have become similar to TSA security at the airport now.”

  “And the mortar is just the latest attempt to get over the wall,” said Clive.

  Zeke nodded. “I assume Peterson is focusing on running down the launch sites. When we were out there, we were able to help him begin to identify some of the possible points of origin for the projectiles. He’s probably got some new information by now.”

  “He called,” Clive agreed. “Said they’ve been able to track some more deliveries as they crossed the border. He wants you and Kimmy back to help run down the actual source.”

  Chapter 3

  “We’ve been able to track projectile launches from the information you and I discussed the last time we met and over the phone,” said Chief Patrol Agent Arlo Peterson. “We shifted our focus to looking for a mortar-like device, used the border cameras and the drones to track activity at night, and put more detection equipment in place.”

  “How about sound?” asked Zeke, standing in the small Border Patrol office in Calexico. He and Kimmy had joined the Border Patrol Agent again after three more projectiles had been tracked on three different nights, launched from the Mexicali side of the border.

  “Yes, we activated the modified sonar, as well. We’ve been able to identify the general areas of the launches. They’re mapped on the wall here.” The agent pointed to a large map hanging behind him, with eight blue pushpins in the center of drawn red circles. “We’re pretty certain that the launches took place within these radii.”

  The maps, which were satellite images of Mexicali, the city immediately south of the border, showed the dense city blocks that contained the launch areas.

  Zeke said, “The mortars aren’t silent, so they’re either set off at night in vacant places, or empty places like parks or school yards, or the people who hear them aren’t interested in reporting it.”

  “Or,” said Peterson, “the people in the immediate area are being paid to keep quiet.”

  Zeke looked at the map again. “Based on the destinations of these recent projectiles, it looks like they were launched from this general area of Mexicali.” He pointed at a radius on the map.

  “We’re only interested in the Mexico side of the border,” said Peterson.

  “Maybe not,” said Zeke. “Look at this.” He pointed to the lines representing the projectiles that the Border Patrol had tracked. “Most of these projectile paths intersect on the north side of the border, if we extend these lines. So it’s reasonable to assume that the landing area is probably near that intersection.”

  “That’s reasonable. If we look at that, where does it put us?” asked Peterson, examining the lines on the map again.

  “Well, it’s not perfect,” said Zeke, “but it looks to me as if most of these projectile routes go through this area.” He pointed to an agricultural field on the east side of Calexico. “About a half mile north of the wall. With a laser device, the projectiles could easily be directed to land in this cleared area, or in these fields over here.” He gestured at the map.

  “OK, let’s assume that’s accurate,” said Kimmy. “Until proven otherwise.”

  “Can we do something similar for the launch sites?” asked Peterson.

  “Somewhat. The first item to check for will be vacant lots within the geography and along these fly routes,” said Zeke.

  Kimmy, now standing near the satellite map said, “It’s mostly built up. But it looks like there’s a park over here.” She pointed. “And a building complex with a large grassy area here.”

  “That’s the grounds of the Autonomous University of Baja California,” said Peterson.

  “How about this?” asked Kimmy, pointing to a soccer field inside one of the marked areas.

  “Necaxa Sports Park,” said Peterson.

  “Might be a good launch spot, based on the landing area of the projectiles,” said Zeke.

  They discussed several other possible launch sites on the map.

  “How do we get over there to check it out?” asked Kimmy.

  Agent Peterson said, “W
e have a pretty good working relationship with the Mexican authorities. Let me see what I can arrange.”

  * * *

  The border crossing between Calexico and Mexicali was located on Imperial Avenue near downtown Calexico. It was a large, concrete structure that straddled the road and created a significant traffic bottleneck.

  “We’re meeting Jose Garcia of the Federal Police,” said Peterson. “He should be waiting for us just over the border.”

  Peterson was driving with Zeke in the passenger seat and Kimmy rode in the back seat as they approached the Mexican border. Ahead were several lines of cars with agents checking the drivers’ credentials.

  “We’re much more concerned with the cars heading north,” said Peterson. “This is pretty much a formality.”

  Their car, a white Chevy SUV with a prominent green stripe on both sides, was waved through, and a moment later Agent Peterson pulled off the road and into a parking spot in an inspection lane. A short, dark man with black hair and a neat moustache approached the vehicle as Peterson rolled the window down.

  “Señor Peterson,” said the man. “How are things on the other side of the wall?”

  “Pretty much the same, Jose,” said Peterson. “Some things never change.” He reached out the window and shook the man’s hand.

  “How can the Federal Police help you today?” asked Garcia.

  “These two are working with me,” said Peterson, waving his hand in Zeke’s direction. He introduced Zeke and Kimmy to the man.

  “What would you like to see?” asked Garcia.

  “We’ve isolated several sites that we think are being used to send drugs over the wall,” Zeke said. Kimmy nodded from the back seat.

  “Send them?” asked Garcia. “How do you mean…?”

  “We think they’re being blasted over with a mortar,” said Peterson.

  Garcia looked confused.

  “A mortero,” said Zeke, using the Spanish word. “Like it was being shot from a cannon.”

  “How long has this been going on?” asked the small man.

  “We picked up on it a couple weeks ago,” said Peterson. “It isn’t happening every night, but we’ve seen it several times this week.”