by Jeff Siebold
“And where it’s arriving on the U.S. side of the border?” asked Clive.
“Yes. It looks like that’s close to the alfalfa fields. We’ll see if Peterson and his team can coordinate that part of the operation.”
“When you find the culprits, Garcia will have to do the formalities,” said Clive.
“The arrests? Yes, but we can stop the launches. Or at least make them think twice before they launch drugs over the border again.”
Clive said, “Disrupting their efforts. Good show.”
* * *
Zeke stood still, quiet and aware. They’d found the start of the tunnel on the U.S. side through the floor of the new warehouse less than two blocks north of the border. The yard was finished with new sod grass, and the tinted windows still had the manufacturer’s stickers in the corner of each pane. The building was small, five bays in total, and silent.
Zeke stood behind two tunnel rats, both of them wearing full body armor, helmets, and ski masks to hide their identities. They had already set their night vision goggles in place and were ready to advance.
Zeke stepped inside and, following the tunnel rats, lowered himself through the hole in the concrete floor into the darkness. He activated his night vision goggles.
Behind Zeke was another Border Patrol officer, not a tunnel rat, but experienced in the business. He was the drone operator. He said, “Ready.”
Suddenly the space filled with a quiet hum, the sound of four small electric motors. That sound was almost lost in the movement of air through the tunnel’s ventilation systems.
The men in front signaled with their hands and the drone lifted up and slowly moved forward through the dark tunnel. There was no sign of another human being, or anything else for that matter, through their night vision goggles. They advanced carefully, guns at the ready.
The drone operator watched as images were sent from the drone to his pad. Nothing human or animal so far. That would have shown on the drone’s infrared camera. The men continued to advance.
Ahead, the tunnel morphed into a drainage sewer and then into a series of large pipes that moved storm water beneath the streets.
The drone stopped at a junction in the tunnel, twisting back and forth and sending back images showing both passages, but detecting no body heat. It hummed quietly.
Zeke pointed to the right, and the drone operator nodded in the dark. Zeke tapped the tunnel rats and signaled right with his hand between them. They nodded, never turning their heads away from the darkness ahead, guns at the ready.
It could have been unnerving, being essentially blind and underground in a confined space. It takes a certain type of man to be a tunnel rat, thought Zeke. To do this everyday, not knowing what you might find in the tunnel.
Eight minutes later the tunnel rats, having completed their search, removed their goggles and lit the tunnel up with incandescent spotlights. They positioned stationary lights along each branch of the tunnel. Then they set about securing the far access point with a large, temporary wire mesh door that they bolted into the walls and floor of the tunnel.
* * *
“It is very much like a large corporation,” Jose Garcia said to Zeke. “Very well funded. Many lines of business. And they’re diversified.”
“How’s it organized?” asked Zeke. “At the top, I mean.”
“They have tried the cartel organization, with variations. It seems to work best for them when there is one decision maker, not several.”
“I know the name ‘Drug Cartel’ stuck, but they really aren’t cartels anymore,” said Zeke.
“That’s right,” said Garcia. “Probably ‘gang’ or ‘operation’ would be more accurate.”
“Where did you go to school, Jose?” asked Zeke.
“I studied business at Stanford.”
“You have a degree from Stanford?”
“Si, yes. An MBA.”
They were standing in a small office in a nondescript building in Mexicali, a space that Garcia said was often used for police business. They’d eaten dinner at a small trattoria near the office. Zeke had ordered authentic Mexican tamales. Garcia had a hamburger. They both drank Dos Equis.
“Based on the timing of the launches Peterson has been tracking we’re probably looking at a window of opportunity between two and four in the morning,” said Zeke.
Garcia nodded. “I mounted infrared cameras on roofs and lamp poles overlooking the most likely launch sites. Some of the ones we visited. Also sonar detectors. We should be able to identify any activity around those sites. Then we can decide whether to arrest them or track them back to their hideout.”
“Good,” said Zeke. He looked at his watch. “Four hours to go. We should be ready to get in position in a couple hours.”
“Meantime,“ said Garcia, “Let’s brief my team.”
* * *
The control room was semi-circular with large screen monitors mounted on the walls over each desk. The screens were connected to infrared and night vision cameras that could transmit images in the dark. The desks, facing the wall and each occupied by a Mexican police officer, were arranged around the semi-circle. Jose Garcia and Zeke stood in the middle of the room, from where they could see everything that was going on.
“It’s two-twenty in the morning,” said Garcia. “And it’s very dark out tonight. We could have something soon, I think.”
Fifteen minutes later, on the middle screen on the left wall, a dark colored van pulled up to the curb and stopped. On the screen, Zeke recognized the vacant dirt lot between the hospital and the sports field that they had visited. After a minute the driver got out and opened the back door and let two men out. They were each carrying something that looked substantial in large, red gym bags. They each wore gloves. The third man, the driver, had a semi-automatic weapon hanging by a strap on his shoulder and was carrying a rucksack. He slung the rucksack over his other shoulder and made his way to the dirt lot.
“Do we have sound? Turn it up,” said Garcia in Spanish.
Someone said, “Yes. They aren’t speaking.”
The plywood board, still lying in the abandoned field, was pulled aside by the first two men, who had set their heavy bags down. They revealed the three-foot square hole that Zeke had discovered earlier. The angle of the camera prevented them from seeing into the hole, but based on the men’s movements, it looked empty.
“Looks like they’re going to fire from inside the hole,” said Garcia.
Zeke nodded.
With the plywood cover out of the way, the first two men emptied their gym bags in the dirt and began to assemble the mortar. The driver kept watch. The mortar assembly was completed in one minute and fifty seconds, and then the two men worked together to position it in the three-foot hole. When they were finished, the top of the mortar stuck out of the hole, but Zeke couldn’t see the base.
The driver then rummaged through his rucksack and withdrew the projectile. He handed it to one of the men, who was standing in the hole with the mortar, and the man held it up to the mouth of the weapon.
“No more than eleven pounds,” said Zeke, “five kilos.”
Garcia, watching the screen carefully, nodded.
A moment later the mortar flashed a brilliant white light and the projectile flew through the air, headed north across the wall. This was followed by a single, loud cracking sound. Immediately, the two men from the truck began pouring bottled water over the weapon.
“It’s hot to the touch,” said Zeke. “But it’ll cool down fast.”
“Do we want to arrest them now?” Garcia asked.
“It might be more beneficial to track them and see where they go.”
Garcia spoke rapid Spanish into a cell phone, and ten seconds later Zeke saw a shadow of a man approach the front of the van from the blind side. He leaned over and attached something to the van’s undercarriage before retreating into the darkness.
Half a minute later, the two men jumped into the hole and began disassembling the
mortar. Shortly thereafter they climbed back into their van carrying the weapon with them, now in pieces inside their carry bags.
The driver secured the back door behind them. He went to the front and got into his seat and drove the van away.
* * *
“You’ll be able to find them with the GPS your man attached. Will you be able to track the license plate number?” Zeke asked Garcia after they’d left the control room.
“Possibly,” said Garcia, ”but it’s highly likely that the license plate was stolen.”
“Well, what else do we have from the camera footage?” asked Zeke.
“The van was black. It was a panel van with very few windows,” said Garcia.
“It was pretty new, maybe a year or two old. It didn’t look as if it had been modified at all. It’s a work truck,” said Zeke, thinking out loud.
Garcia nodded. “I didn’t recognize any of the men,” he said. “But they all looked to be Hispanic, and all three were of small stature, maybe five and a half feet at most. They moved in a similar way. They could have been related.”
“They did have similar body mechanics,” said Zeke. “And the two that weren’t driving were in the back of the van in the cargo area. The driver had to let them out.”
Garcia nodded again. “Do you think there was something in the passenger seats that kept them from sitting there?”
“They probably didn’t want to be seen as they drove to the launch site,” said Zeke. “But I’m not sure why.”
Garcia said, “My men are tracking the van. Let’s see how Peterson is doing on the other side of the wall.”
* * *
CPA Arlo Peterson said, “It happened just as you expected.”
He addressed this comment to Zeke, although his Ex-O, Joyce Henderson, Garcia, and Kimmy were in the room as well.
“Last night’s projectile followed the same route as one of the others we tracked. Ended up in a vacant lot in Calexico, next to a school,” he continued.
“Were your agents able to retrieve it?” asked Zeke.
“We didn’t want to tip our hand on a single delivery. We tracked it and saw the laser guide it in the last little bit. Maybe the last half kilometer. We were looking for the guys to retrieve it and drive off.”
“But?” asked Zeke.
“It was unexpected,” Joyce said. “It was a single guy. He walked across the street, picked up the delivery, and carried it into a house.”
“You got it on camera?” asked Kimmy.
Joyce nodded. “Thermographic camera. It was dark, but we got enough.”
* * *
“One guy, guiding in a load of cocaine that size, and walking it across the street to his house,” said Peterson. “Wouldn’t have thought it would happen like that.”
Zeke said, “So they either buy or rent a house near the border, over on the edge of the neighborhood…”
“They rented it, actually,” said Ex-O Henderson. “We checked the real estate tax records and called the owner this morning. The house hasn’t sold in four years, but the owner says he leased it to a young couple two months ago.”
“A Hispanic couple?” asked Kimmy.
“No, actually, he described them as Midwesterners. White, in their late twenties. They said they were professors at San Diego State,” said the Ex-O.
“That made sense to him. The Imperial Valley campus is only a mile away from the house. They could bike to work. Or walk,” said Peterson.
“How about the guy who retrieved the mortar projectile?” asked Zeke.
“He had a different body shape. He was tall and sort of square looking, in the pictures.”
Zeke nodded. It’s big business, he thought. They can afford whatever resources they need to bring the drugs in.
He said, “Did he do anything with the projectile before he took it inside?”
Peterson said, “No, it was pretty quick. He was on his cell phone. He crossed the road, checked his watch, and pointed the laser at a trash dumpster. In less than a minute we heard an incoming projectile, and it landed twenty seconds later. It sort of drifted in, a soft landing. Then he put the laser away, picked up the package, and carried it in his front door.”
“Wasn’t it hot?” asked Kimmy.
“Could have been. It looked like he was wearing heat resistant gloves,” said the Ex-O. “Leather with a Kevlar lining, I’d guess. Our guys have some of them.”
“What bothered me about all this,” said Zeke, “was that they were taking one shot, then closing up shop. It’s almost like a test, of sorts.”
Peterson said, “What do you mean?”
“The M252 mortar is capable of dropping between eight and sixteen rounds per minute comfortably. We assume they’re moving one point four million dollars worth of drugs in each projectile. Once you have the mortar assembled and working, why would you stop at just one shot?”
Peterson nodded.
“But now I know,” said Zeke.
Henderson looked at him.
“The bottleneck is on the receiving side. One guy can only handle so many incoming projectiles at a time. It’s just one or two at a time now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it goes to three or four a night. But until they bolster their operation on the U.S. side of the border, they’ll have to stay with a limited number of launches.”
* * *
“So, do we have a plan of action?” asked Kimmy.
Peterson said, “Well, we’ll definitely want to notify our friends across the border…” He looked at Jose Garcia. “Officially, I mean.”
“Si,” said Garcia.
Peterson nodded, “…and alert them to the launch site and the timing.”
“What about the recipient?” asked Kimmy.
“We’ll get a search warrant for the house and try to serve it when he’s there. Maybe the next time there’s a projectile heading our way,” Peterson said.
Ex-O Henderson said, “It’s in the works.”
“What’s the basis of the warrant?” asked Kimmy. “Will the reception of suspicious material be enough?”
“You’re right that we don’t have evidence of a crime. Or of theft. And we don’t know what’s in the projectiles,” said Zeke.
“No, but the Border Patrol has been granted a wide berth lately. If there’s a chance of illegal aliens or drug smuggling, we’ve pretty much got police powers,” said Peterson.
Zeke nodded. “Did anyone notice a vehicle on the infrared?”
“No, but there could have been one in the garage. Most of the houses on that part of East Rivera have double or triple garages,” said the Ex-O.
“The house on East Rivera is most likely a first stop. Can we find out where they take the drugs from there?” asked Zeke.
“We can. We’ve got the house under surveillance now, and our teams are ready to follow. Once we know where he’s going, we can intercept the delivery,” said Peterson.
“Then lets hold off on serving the search warrant until they’ve made a play to move the drugs,” said Zeke. “There’s got to be a nearby distribution operation. With that much pure drug, they’ll want to cut it, package it, and get it ready for quick retail sale.”
Chapter 8
Zeke and Kimmy sat in the light blue rental car, parked on the opposite side of East Rivera from the projectile landing area. They were five houses north of the house the two Midwestern college professors had rented, which was presently occupied by the recipient of the projectile.
Just north of the projectile landing area, and across the street from them, was a Junior High School.
“The school being there makes surveillance tougher,” said Kimmy. “People tend to be more cautious around elementary and middle schools.”
Several cars filled with Peterson’s Border Patrol agents were parked around the target house, but at a distance.
“It’s been absolutely silent in there since our guy took the projectile inside,” said Zeke. “What was that, about two forty this morning?”
“He doesn’t have long to wait,” said Zeke, looking at the sky. “Another couple hours and the sun will be setting.”
“Wait,” said Kimmy. “There’s something.”
The radio they had borrowed from CPA Peterson suddenly squawked. “We’ve got movement,” said an electronic voice.
They watched as the garage door slowly opened and a nondescript compact car, a red Kia sedan, backed out of the driveway. It paused near the street, and pulled out heading north on East Rivera.
“Here it comes,” said Kimmy. They ducked as the car, moving at a leisurely pace and well within the speed limit, drove past them.
“Let’s see where he’s going,” said Zeke.
Kimmy said into the radio, “This is Kimmy. We’re following the red Kia.”
“Roger that,” said another voice from the radio. “We’re checking the license on it.”
Zeke drove carefully, a hundred yards back from the Kia, which turned left on East Birch Street and headed toward downtown Calexico. Zeke and Kimmy turned and followed.
“It shouldn’t be too hard to keep him in sight,” said Zeke. “He’s being pretty conservative.”
Kimmy reported the Kia’s new direction and location to the voice on the radio and received a confirmation. “We’ve got a car in front of him, and one paralleling him,” said the voice. “You guys stay back and let’s see where he’s heading.”
* * *
Where he was heading was a freight transfer terminal, a building that trucks use to load and unload cargo. There were four eighteen-wheeler trailers parked at dock-height bays in front of the building.
The red Kia had turned right on Imperial Avenue, and a short while later it had turned left on West Cole Boulevard. Then it turned left again, into a lot occupied by the transfer terminal. There was a small trailer beside the transfer terminal building, which was centered in what looked like a ten acre, fenced site. Around it in all directions the level ground was covered in gravel and sienna sand and dirt.
