The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  This was the pair’s fifth run in two weeks, transporting Tatouage’s cocaine up the coast.

  “Are we clear?” asked Raul, the second in command. He’d seen Humberto studying the monitor.

  “It looks so,” was the reply. “There are a few small vessels, fishing boats most likely, but nothing big between us and the coastline.”

  “Good, then. A quiet night.”

  “Wait,” said Humberto a moment later. “Wait, the fishing boats, they are all coming toward us!”

  “What?” asked Raul. “What are you saying?”

  “They are heading in our direction.”

  “What? Why?” asked Raul.

  “I don’t know, they just are!”

  * * *

  The three Coast Guard rigid-hull inflatable interdiction boats tracked the narco-sub from the rear, gaining on it steadily. They were invisible in the darkness. The elite Coast Guard MSRT teams were split between the three boats, and ready for action. The boats were eerily silent in their approach.

  “At my command,” said Master Chief Petty Officer Dylan Groman into his microphone. All three Maritime Security Response Teams, expert in boarding ships and in close quarters combat, confirmed their readiness.

  Two team members in the Coast Guard helicopter overhead also confirmed. The team’s highly trained snipers were in the chopper.

  “Let’s go,” said Groman.

  The sea rolled and the waves broke over the narco-sub’s bow. The interdiction boats closed in at full speed, slamming the ocean’s surface, water spraying wildly over their bows.

  At about fifty feet one of the inflatables slowed slightly and dropped back in the middle of the formation. Its function was to prevent escapees and surprises. The other boats pulled parallel to the low-profile vessel, maintaining twenty knots, on track with the semi-submersible narco-sub. The helicopter stayed close.

  The vessel itself was about thirty feet long and narrow and painted a camouflage silver and blue. All but the tower was underwater, just under the surface of the blue sea. The tower and the hatch protruded from the ocean.

  “Halt! Alto! Stop your engine now,” said a voice over the Coast Guard’s loudspeaker.

  Chief Petty Officer Groman’s team had commandeered all marine radio frequencies for several miles around, and the same message was being broadcast on all, simultaneously. In English and in Spanish.

  The narco-sub kept moving on a straight course at twenty knots due north, ignoring the inflatables.

  “Stop your vessel and prepare to be boarded,” the loudspeaker repeated in its blaring, mechanical tone. Then it repeated the message in Spanish.

  The narco-sub kept moving.

  “Prepare to fire warning shots,” Groman said into his helmet mic. “We’re boarding this bastard.”

  “Ready, sir,” came the reply from one of the gunmen tending the fifty caliber machine guns mounted forward on each inflatable.

  Groman could feel his men’s tension. They were all expert, all experienced in interdiction, and all accomplished in hand-to-hand and small arms combat.

  “Authorization to fire warning shots across their bow,” said Groman. “At your ready.”

  Three seconds later a triple burst exploded from one of the heavy guns and three large bullets splashed the water in front of the narco-sub. The sound reverberated and for a moment it erased the engine sounds of the vessels.

  “Halt! Alto! Prepare to be boarded,” came the command again.

  There was no response from the sub.

  “Looks like we need some help from above,” Master Chief Petty Officer Groman said into his mic.

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply. “We see two engines, both aft. We’ve got them both targeted. On your command, Master Chief.”

  Groman didn’t hesitate. “Fire at will,” he said.

  The resulting sniper fire was almost simultaneous. With measured precision each sniper shot three 7.62 mm NATO rounds into the engine closest to him.

  Both engines sputtered and smoked. A few seconds later the almost silent engines of the sub stopped, and the white exhaust began to dissipate.

  The port side engine must have failed first, because the sub suddenly turned to starboard and began to slowly circle in a wide path. Then the starboard engine quit, and the sub began to slow, backing down to ten knots, then five, and ultimately was dead in the water. The interdiction boats slowed and stayed with the sub.

  “Ready to board?” asked Groman.

  “Aye, skipper,” came the replies from both inflatables. “Ready to board.”

  Once again, the bullhorn sounded. “Step out of the sub with your hands up.” It was repeated in Spanish.

  There was no response.

  “Team One, you’re up. The night is ours!” Groman said, repeating the MSRT slogan. “The night is ours!”

  * * *

  “We probably see eighty-five or ninety percent of the illegal traffic that takes place in this ocean,” said Coast Guard Commander Nelson. “By satellite or detection. But we’re limited by our resources. We only take down about a quarter of that.”

  “Well, we appreciate your help with this one,” said Zeke.

  “How did you know where they were?”

  Zeke said, “We’ve been following the guns for a while. We’re after the man who sold these automatic weapons to the Mexican cartels.”

  “How did you get the intel?” asked Nelson.

  “We were successful turning one of his gang, a driver,” said Zeke. “He led us to their drop-off point here in California.”

  “They were exchanging drugs for guns, then?”

  “They were. We interrogated the captain and the mate from the narco-sub. They loaded the drugs in Rosarito and took them out in the ocean and across the border up to Carlsbad. They have an operation up there, seaside. They send large fishing boats out to bring the drugs in from the subs,” said Zeke.

  “And then they load the sub up with rifles and explosives to make the return trip?” asked Nelson. “Good heavens, it’s like a supply chain business case study.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Zeke. “This is definitely big business.”

  “The guns we confiscated, can you track them back to your guy?” asked Commander Nelson.

  “We think we can,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “The tunnel next to the Farmacia San Carlos, Tatouage will be in that tunnel tonight,” said Benny Perez. He was speaking on his cell phone with U.S. Border Patrol agent Joyce Henderson, CPA Peterson’s Ex-O in Calexico.

  Ex-O Henderson said, “The one that connects to the house on Dool Avenue? We’ll stay clear of that tunnel, then.”

  “No, no, we want you to go there. He wants the American, Traynor, to go there tonight,” he said. The “he” Benny referred to was Tatouage.

  Joyce Henderson had been working with the Mexican cartel for four years, since her husband had been killed by a Mexican Policia. Her husband Pedro, a Mexican national, had moved to Calexico when they married eighteen years earlier. He had been visiting his family in Mexicali when a police car in a high-speed chase t-boned his vehicle, killing him and their twelve-year-old son.

  Joyce, filled with grief, got no satisfaction when the police officer that had been driving was vindicated of wrongdoing. She quickly became bitter, looking for a way to lash out at the authorities. And the extra money she received from her chats with Benny Perez came in handy, now that hers was the only paycheck.

  Joyce thought for a moment. Then she said, “I’ll pass that information along, then.”

  * * *

  “It’s reliable intel,” said CPA Peterson. “According to our sources, Tatouage will be in the Dool Avenue tunnel tonight. Our informants say he is going in after the drugs that are stored in there.”

  Zeke said, “Is that a tunnel you’ve been watching?”

  “It’s another one that we found last week, under a house that’s being renovated. The drones discovered stacks of boxes, most likely drugs, along t
he walls of the tunnel. We’ve got cameras and agents hidden outside the entrance on the U.S. side, and we’re waiting for the tunnel rats to show up and secure the tunnel and get the boxes out. Then our contractor can fill in the entry with cement,” said Joyce Henderson. “Probably be a few more days. These things take time.”

  They were meeting in Peterson’s conference room, with Henderson and Kimmy in attendance.

  “I’ll be there, then,” said Zeke. “How certain are we that Tatouage will be in the tunnel?”

  Henderson said, “Probably eighty-twenty.”

  “Let me go in alone,” said Zeke.

  “That’s dicey,” said Peterson. “Remember, guns aren’t really effective down there. Lots of ricochet possibilities. We’ve had that go wrong for us before.”

  Zeke nodded. “OK, I’ve got my Walther, but I won’t need a gun.”

  “But I can’t say that’s true for the other side. Tatouage will probably be well armed.”

  * * *

  “You’ll be exposed when you get down there,” said CPA Peterson. “So you’ll need body armor and infrared goggles, in case there’s no light.”

  Zeke nodded. They were in the small residence on Dool Street in Calexico, across the street from the wall and Mexicali. The tunnel that they’d discovered began beneath the home and extended south for about four hundred feet. According to the drones, the tunnel was empty except for the many boxes stacked along one wall.

  “I’d prefer to send someone down with you,” said Peterson. “It’s dangerous down there.”

  “I’m good,” said Zeke. “If we go in force, we risk losing him. Besides, I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  Standing at the entrance to the tunnel, Zeke pulled on the thin Kevlar vest and adjusted the infrared goggles on top of his head. He checked the vest mic he was wearing and set the volume on his radio to low. Then he signaled to CPA Peterson and the three Border Patrol Agents that were assisting. He pulled down his goggles and stepped into the hole. Peterson shut the bank of floodlights off.

  There was a short wooden ladder propped against the side of the opening in the floor that extended down about eight feet. Zeke reached the ground and moved quickly to one side, out of the direct line of fire.

  * * *

  Through his infrared goggles Zeke saw the green-hued image of a man for a quick second before it disappeared around the corner, ahead to his right.

  Then Zeke heard footsteps running away, echoing down the adjoining tunnel.

  Getting to his feet, Zeke rushed the corner. He hesitated, then he dropped onto his stomach and looked quickly around the corner through his goggles from about a foot off the floor.

  He saw no one. The tunnel was empty except for the railroad tracks that led off into the distance.

  Zeke bounced up and followed the sound of the footsteps. In the middle distance he could see the dark outlines of what looked like wooden boxes stacked against one wall of the tunnel. He flattened himself against the wall and walked sideways, crab-like toward the boxes.

  * * *

  The thing with tunnels is that there’s almost no place to hide. No obstructions, Zeke thought as he approached the boxes. He stopped three feet from them, his back flat against the wall.

  Zeke listened hard. There was no sound in the tunnel but the soft breeze of the ventilation system. The air smelled hot like moist dirt. There was very little light.

  He must have shut his lights down earlier, thought Zeke.

  A faint sound like a humming motor began and then increased somewhat. It sounded far away but was increasing. It was accompanied by the grating of metal wheels on the rail. Zeke stayed still, his back pressed against the tunnel wall.

  The small cart approached Zeke at a steady rate, its monotonous motor sounds droning on. Zeke moved in closer to the boxes and wedged himself into the corner as the cart came by. He touched the fixed blade knife in its sheath along his ankle. It felt reassuring.

  The cart went by Zeke’s position. It was empty.

  Suddenly, the dark man appeared in the tunnel, a silver machete in his right hand. It hung like an extension of his arm, connecting his fist with the floor. His night vision goggles gave him the look of a robotic cyclops. He looked at Zeke, and then he moved toward him.

  Zeke nodded. “I was hoping you’d be here,” he said.

  If Tatouage heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it. He lifted the blade of the machete to waist height and moved closer to Zeke, waving it. Wary, but confident.

  They must have weapons stashed all around the tunnels, thought Zeke.

  Zeke became very still. He breathed slowly and, never blinking, bent his knees slightly.

  “You were stupid to come down here. You’re a fool,” Zeke said, provoking the man.

  Tatouage’s face contorted and his eyes showed rage. He ran his left hand through his long, black hair and snorted at Zeke. “Merde, maintenant. Now you die. And slowly,” he said in French.

  Zeke nodded. He shuffled his feet, moving closer to the Frenchman.

  The machete gave the man an additional eighteen-inch reach. Zeke eased in at the edge of the man’s radius. Then he stopped.

  Angry and impatient, the tattooed man first stabbed at Zeke, and then crowding in he raised his arm in a backswing, intent on slashing across Zeke’s torso. Zeke moved to his left and Tatouage twisted on the fly, adjusting his swing in the small space. The machete bounced off the wall with a loud clang. Tatouage adjusted and stepped in, again taking his backswing.

  Zeke also crowded in and held the man’s elbow with his left hand for just a moment, stopping the blow and defusing the power behind it. Then in a simultaneous, fluid movement, he smashed his right forearm into the Frenchman’s face to the sound of cracking bone and cartilage. The vicious blow drew blood immediately, and the man dropped the machete and held both hands to his face.

  Zeke followed this with a hard kick to the side of the Frenchman’s knee, bending the joint in a direction it had never been intended to bend. Tatouage screamed and fell to the ground unable to stand, still holding his face in both hands.

  “Found him,” Zeke said into the microphone on his shoulder.

  “Roger that,” said the Border Patrol Chief. They’d agreed that the Border Patrol would maintain watch on the Dool Avenue end of the tunnel and be ready to intervene.

  Zeke rolled Tatouage onto his stomach and straddled the man as he snapped handcuffs on the Frenchman’s wrists.

  * * *

  “My Ex-O was working for Tatouage,” said Peterson. He shook his head.

  “Tatouage told you that?” asked Zeke. They were debriefing the tunnel action in the U.S. Border Patrol offices in Calexico.

  “He did. He said it to show me how much of a fool I’ve been. How much smarter he is than me.”

  “But he’s going to prison, and you’re not,” said Zeke.

  “True. But how much damage has been done…”

  “Not so much,” said Zeke. “I think it was more of a cat and mouse game. They got you to look east, and they went west.”

  “I know there’s a lot of information being bought and sold at the border, but I didn’t expect that Joyce was in on it,” said Peterson.

  “What’s next for Tatouage?” asked Zeke.

  “He’s going away for a long time,” said Peterson. “And in a U.S. Federal prison.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry I missed it, old boy,” said Clive. “I’m sure it was impressive.”

  Zeke said into his cell phone, “We may have put a dent in Tatouage’s efforts to circumvent the Wall.”

  “I heard that he had a machete, so I suppose it was close to a fair fight,” said Clive.

  “It was a fair fight,” said Zeke. “He was well armed.”

  Clive thought about that for a moment. “Well, it ended well. For you, at least. What’s next?”

  “I think we’ve cut the head off the monster,” said Zeke. “Tatouage has been apprehended. I’ll help CPA Peterson wrap
this up and will head back east in a day or two.”

  “With a layover in Atlanta?” asked Clive.

  “Every chance I get,” said Zeke. “But this time we’re meeting in Savannah. Call it ‘Personal Time’.”

  “We’ll need to finish up this Cumberland affair next. We talked with Carl, and he’s verified our thinking about the killings. He said that some of the guards are crooked, and they’re letting a gang run the prison for them.

  “I think that’s right,” said Zeke. “We should be able to take the crooked guards down and then get Carl out of the prison when I get back.”

  “Remember, old boy, Warden Clark asked us in as advisors only. His team is to supposed to take any action.”

  “That won’t work,” said Zeke. “His team is corrupt.”

  * * *

  “That smells heavenly,” Tracy Johnson said. “What is it?”

  “I thought we’d make shrimp and grits. It’s a local favorite,” Zeke said.

  “Sounds perfect.” She was wearing a loose, white blouse and jeans that she’d cuffed at her ankles. She was barefoot and her hair was still damp from the shower.

  The small Savannah cottage smelled like garlic and warm butter as Zeke cooked the shrimp. Tracy came into the kitchen.

  “Whoa,” said Tracy, looking at the lobster-sized crustaceans. “Those aren’t shrimp…they’re huge!”

  “You’re right. They’re prawns,” Zeke said, laughing.

  After filling each bowl with warm hominy grits, he had arranged the seasoned, steamed shrimp around the top of the dish and added butter and shredded cheddar cheese. With a flourish, Zeke set the bowls on the small kitchen table and produced two forks.

  “It’s like magic,” said Tracy.

  “I think all the magic took place earlier,” said Zeke. “This is just dessert.”

  Tracy ignored her bowl and stood and stepped around the table. She took Zeke’s fork from his hand, set it on the table, and nestled into his arms.