South

by Lance Charnes

  As the track neared the mountains to their left, it cut across more and rougher networks of water channels left behind by decades of runoff. Down, up, slide, jolt, rinse, repeat, until Luis’ teeth threatened to bail out of their sockets. Then at the last moment, he’d come to a flat, open patch that would last a few hundred yards until the next spider’s web of stream beds threw itself in his path. A faint glow appeared along the southern horizon: the border fence and its lights. Luis’ hands were numb from the constant vibration, not the cold. The ache in his shoulder and back screamed for codeine he didn’t dare take.

  The dashboard clock read “3:19” when Luis stopped in a wide, dry streambed and turned off the engine so he could hear the now-deafening silence. He tumbled out of the Jeep, stretched, twisted to break up the stiffness, shook some feeling back into his hands and feet. After a few minutes, he leaned into the Jeep to tap Nora’s leg.

  She startled awake, shook her head hard, sneezed. “What is it?”

  “We’re here.”

  “Here where?” Her eyes swept the land around them, focused on the fence to the Jeep’s right. “Is that the border? It’s so close.”

  “About a mile.” Close enough to make out the individual light towers and follow the brown line into the hills. He pointed to their left. “My original plan was to go up there. About a three-mile hike and some rock climbing to get to the border, no fence, no guards. That was before we were all casualties. How much walking do you think you can do now?”

  Nora shifted in her seat, winced. “Not three miles, not uphill. Hope will never make it either. What’s Plan B?”

  “It’s not much better.” Luis pointed straight ahead into the mouth of a narrow canyon. “We follow that track about a mile up to the fence, and unless they’ve blocked it off, do some mountain-goat action on the rock faces to get over. We come out at almost the same place as Plan A. It’s another couple miles to the highway and a bus stop either way. The problem is, this gets patrolled by drones, and there’s motion sensors down here.”

  “Can we drive to the fence?”

  “It’s rough, a lot of erosion and rockfall. Driving this thing will take longer than walking, and it’ll give them a great big heat blob to see on IR.”

  She nodded. “Unless there’s a Plan C with a helicopter, I vote for Plan B.”

  They divided the surviving water bottles and energy bars between the two backpacks. Nora strapped on her body armor and submachine gun, then Luis helped her with her pack. “I’ll drive the Jeep up there so they’ll think we took Plan A and waste time looking for us in the wrong place. Walk straight toward that notch in the hills. It’ll be a bit rough for the first couple hundred yards, then you’ll hit what passes for a track. Follow it to where two big stream beds come together. That’s the fenceline, no lights on that part. If I haven’t caught up by then and it’s quiet, hang out and rest. If you hear a lot of noise behind you, get over the fence however you can. Take cover and wait. If I don’t show up by dawn—”

  “What are you talking about, ‘if you don’t show up’?” Nora growled. “You’re dumping us here?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. The standard Border Patrol response if they see activity out here is to send a gunship. I want you guys to go on by yourselves and be safe. Follow the stream bed down to the highway, then go east. There’s a roadhouse kind of thing there. Call this number to get picked up.” He recited Ray’s latest burner-phone number. “This is all for just-in-case. Once I dump the Jeep, I’ll be right behind you, understand?”

  The moon was just bright enough to pick out Nora’s glare. “Don’t you give up on us now.”

  “I told you, I won’t do that. Get going. Dawn’s in about two hours. I want us over the line by then.”

  They’d made good time over the first couple hundred yards past the steep black slopes towering above them. Nora got them through the jumbled water channels and rockfall without any mishaps other than scraped palms and lots of dust. Even Hope had managed to not cry or whine, even though she had every reason to.

  Then on level, open ground, Hope stepped in a hole.

  She went down hard, face-first, with a thud that curdled Nora’s stomach. The following silence was the worst part, that endless moment between a child’s fall and the howl of pain that follows. Nora gathered Hope in her arms just in time to get a faceful of her daughter’s first shriek.

  Nora cuddled the girl against her, rocking, shushing, stroking her face and hair. She freed up a hand to shine her penlight at the hole. Not deep, but just the right shape to catch someone unaware.

  “It hurts! Mommy, it hurts it hurts…”

  Nora pulled up Hope’s denim pants leg; no blood (praise Allah!), no protruding bone, nothing hanging at an unnatural angle. A sprain, she hoped, maybe just a twisted ankle, please, please…Nora ran her fingers along Hope’s leg, feeling for knots or give or a pain reaction. When she reached the little ankle, Hope screamed again and jerked her leg away. Her cries echoed off the rock walls all around them.

  Why now? They were so close. All the problems, all the close calls, all the lost sleep and bad food and boredom and being dirty and scared. They’d gotten through it all. Safety was just a few minutes away…and this happens. Hope’s crying kicked holes in Nora’s heart.

  The frustration and fear and fatigue of not just today, not just these past two weeks, but from months and years climbed up her throat. She threw her head back until she stared at the cold, distant sky. “Why are You doing this?” she screamed. “Why don’t You care anymore?”

  The stars fuzzed out. Parts of her snapped deep inside and trickled from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Cupcake, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

  She fought the tears, tried to shove away the sobs sandpapering her throat. She had to keep it together for her husband and son lost in the unknown somewhere out there, for her tortured daughter, her parents driven from their beloved, adopted homeland. She’d fought for so long she could barely remember how to let loose, how to cry. Her heart struggled against her, dredging up all the things she shouldn’t have done but did, all the things she should’ve done but didn’t, all the tears she hadn’t shed because she had to “be strong.” Her Hope was broken and her hope clung to her fingertips, slipping away.

  She crushed Hope’s face to her throat. “Forgive me, I’m so sorry, I let you down…”

  Her daughter pushed away, a little blurry face aimed up at Nora. Then a little hand pressed Nora’s cheek. “Mommy, (sniff sniff) don’t cry, you’re scaring me, why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

  “I’m sorry I fell down. Please don’t cry.”

  They swapped apologies between their sobs until Nora realized she’s me, she’s four-year-old me. The sheer absurdity kicked her into a hard, coughing laugh. She laughed with tears sheeting down her cheeks and off her chin, with Hope pleading, “What’s so funny?”

  Nora eventually stammered out, “I…I’m just…I’m really, really tired…and it just all…it all caught up.” She forced down a few deep breaths. “I’m sorry. Let me wrap up your ankle, okay, Cupcake? I’ll stop crying.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” She fought her way out of her pack, snuffling all the way, got the Ace bandage out of the first-aid kit and went to work on Hope. She stopped every few seconds to wipe the tears from her eyes with a McDonalds napkin. When she wasn’t biting her lip in pain, Hope peered at her, confusion and some alarm plain on her face. She’s never seen me cry. Peter hasn’t either. How many years since I cried in front of Paul?

  An odd, discordant note broke through the sound of her own sniffles and Hope’s tiny “ows” and the cool breeze through the underbrush. Something Nora didn’t understand until she remembered what it meant.

  The buzz of a large bee. Red and green stars passing across the sky. A drone.

  57

  The Office of Air and Marine (OAM) protects the American people and th
e nation’s critical infrastructure through the coordinated use of integrated air and marine forces to detect, interdict and prevent acts of terrorism and the unlawful movement of people, illegal drugs and other contraband toward or across the borders of the United States.

  — “About Air and Marine,” U.S. Customs and Border Protection (cbp.gov)

  MONDAY, 17 MAY

  It hadn’t taken long for Luis to remember how to do this—how to read the fine shadings of light and shadow, how to avoid the worst of the thorns, how to decide whether that round patch ahead was a hole or a rattlesnake. He moved ahead not necessarily comfortably—his shoulder and chest hurt too much for that—but with confidence. He had to be catching up to Nora and Hope.

  A noise behind him made him slow and cock his ear back. A high-pitched whine bounced between the rocks all around him. The sound of a mosquito close to his ear…except mosquitoes didn’t live out here. Luis looked up in time to see marker lights pass a few hundred feet overhead. Nobody cruised this part of the border for fun.

  The lights tilted, then cut a circle across the sky. The whine got more effort behind it, broadened, echoed harder off the rocks.

  A drone had spotted him.

  Luis’ instinct was to run to the canyon wall and hunker under a rock, try to wait it out. But it wouldn’t do any good. The drone could watch him for hours, and now it had found him, a gunship drone would be on its way. Nora and Hope were out there somewhere. He had to get to them before the gunship did.

  He angled toward the canyon’s south wall, hoping to pick up the track. He ignored the echoing whine, tried not to think about the lights circling over him. Once he cleared the worst of the rough ground, he eased into a jog even though it made the backpack straps slap against his shoulder wound. The moonlight shone just bright enough to turn the ground into a minefield of dips and bumps and cracks, any one of which could swallow a foot or snap a leg.

  After a few minutes he stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Nora!” His voice bounced from rock to rock; hers didn’t. More trotting, more jinking around holes that didn’t exist, more shying from snakes that turned into sticks. He stopped, called out again. No answer. Where are they? He looked up to the drone; now the lights drew a long ellipse, with him at one end.

  It had found them.

  He pushed himself faster, cranked down the backpack’s straps to keep it from battering his kidneys as hard as it had his now-numb shoulder. His brain flew back to Afghanistan, double-timing across open fields to avoid giving the Taliban easy targets. He’d been twenty years younger and a lot fitter back then, and the Taliban hadn’t had air support on its way.

  When he saw the drone’s track become more circular, he dropped into a shambling walk, panted, then yelled “Nora!” again.

  “Here!” A tiny voice, splintered by the rocks. Then a faint blue-white pinpoint arced back and forth. Nora’s penlight.

  Luis’ lungs were broiling by the time he reached Nora. She stood astride the track, her H&K cradled in her right arm, her left arm swinging the penlight. The relief in her face mirrored what he felt. He staggered to a stop, braced his palms on his knees and sucked down as much air as he could.

  When he finally stood straight, Nora asked, “How long before the gunship comes?”

  “Hard to say. It depends on how far away it was when they chopped it here. Could be five minutes or an hour. We’ve gotta keep moving.” He noticed the tear tracks in the dust coating Nora’s face, and Hope sitting on the ground with her left shoe off. “What happened?”

  Nora hung her head. “Hope stepped in a hole. Her ankle’s twisted or sprained.” She looked up, grim-faced. “She can’t walk.”

  Luis could only shake his head. “Whatever. We’ll take turns carrying her. Come on.”

  They could manage only a fast walk; jogging bounced Hope too much and made her cry. The first time Luis took Hope from Nora’s arms, he dredged up all the comforting dad things he used to say to Christa when she got hurt or was scared and murmured them to Hope, who kept her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He glanced back over his shoulder a few times to try to catch the gunship’s blinking marker lights, to see if they were about to be blasted into paste, but the sky remained clear.

  Up ahead, he spotted the fence.

  They plunged into the dry riverbed, then back up over the bank, and within a couple minutes they arrived at the “separation barrier”: eighteen feet tall, eight iron posts supporting each six-foot-long, four-foot-tall flat steel panel at the top, stretched across what used to be the river’s outlet into Mexico. Dry brush and dead parts of trees piled against the base. This end ran directly into a sheer cliff—no climbing possible. The other end, about four hundred yards away, ran into a steep slope that used to be climbable from this side.

  Engineers had pounded the ground flat along the fence, but enough junk had built up that Luis and Nora couldn’t keep on the path. They swerved onto and off the embankment, skirting the debris at the risk of tripping in the shadows. He looked back again.

  A blinking red beacon flanked by marker lights, maybe a mile away. The gunship. Infrared sighting, a minigun mounted in the nose, more maneuverable than a manned chopper. He didn’t want to be caught in the open by that thing.

  Three hundred yards. They dropped into the riverbed that meandered in and out of the fenceline, hopped over rocks and ruts, scaled a low rise. Nora tried to run while carrying Hope but could manage only a fast hobble. “Nora! Let me take her!”

  Nora sideslipped to him, panting and sweating. Luis grabbed the girl from her, draped her over his good shoulder, and moved as fast as he could toward the end of the fence. He could see it in the gloom, a rock shelf and then a slope of scree tucked into a sharp angle against the fence’s top. They’d be partly exposed until they reached the top, where they’d stand out like torches in a dark back yard.

  The gunship whirred overhead, swept out into Mexican airspace, then clawed through an impossible bank to line up for another pass. It was half the size of a Blackhawk and a lot quieter, its sound more like the beating of a dragonfly’s wings, if the dragonfly was the size of a Cessna.

  “Against the fence!” Luis shouted. He cut right to snug up against the rusty metal stakes. The drone pilot would still be able to see them but couldn’t count on hitting anything but the fence; he’d wheel around for a clear shot to conserve his ammo. They might just have a chance.

  Luis checked on Nora, who was slowing, the wrong speed adjustment. “We’re almost there!” he yelled. “Keep moving!”

  The gunship zoomed past, practically scraping the fencetop.

  Luis staggered to a halt behind a shallow outcropping, folded into a crouch and slid Hope off his shoulder. She took one look at the drone—now hovering fifty yards away, its blunt snout resembling a giant evil insect—then turned and threw her arms around Luis’ neck. “Make it go away!” she cried. “It’s icky!”

  He patted her back. “Okay, sweetheart, don’t worry.” The rock shielded them more-or-less. Her mom, however, was still in the open, her limp worsening with each step. “Keep coming!” he barked. “Just a few more steps! Come on!”

  She leaped into the niche just as the drone opened fire. The hoofbeat pounding of bullets churning the ground just feet from them drowned the minigun’s ripping-cloth racket. The noise stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving behind a drifting cloud of dirt and shredded sagebrush. Hope squealed, while Nora pressed closer into Luis’ arms.

  “Now what?” she panted.

  “Your leg’s bad?”

  “My leg’s fine. My rear feels like an alligator’s eating it.”

  Same as Luis’ left shoulder. “Can you climb?”

  “With that thing out there? Will it let us?”

  “I’m going to try to blind it.” According to things he’d seen online, multiple high heat sources and smoke confused the night-vision cameras and thermal targeting sensors. He’d never tried it; he hoped the geeks were right. “Get the fla
res out of my backpack.”

  While Nora rummaged, Luis watched the gunship slide from side to side, trying to get a better target picture on them. It could hover there for hours and had no incentive to leave. A Border Patrol team was probably already on its way to clean up the mess the drone would make.

  “How many do you have?” Nora asked.

  “Should be three.”

  “I’ve got two…”

  Luis checked the area around him. About six feet above him, he spied a crack in the rock just about the right size for the end of a flare. A thick layer of dry brush crowded the fence’s base, and creosote and greasewood studded the ground just beyond their hide. Promising.

  Then something else caught his eye. The iron posts normally had less than six inches between them. But the six-foot-wide section ending at the foot of the slope had either gone in crooked or had settled, leaving a gap of a foot or so that stretched from the ground to about five feet up. Way too small for a normal-sized man to get through. But maybe…

  “Got it,” Nora said. She handed the three flares to Luis.

  “Look over there. Think you can fit through that?”

  She squinted along Luis’ outstretched arm. “I’d have to take off my vest and backpack, and I couldn’t get my pack through it.”

  Luis turned Hope around so she could look out. “Hope, do you think you could get through those bars over there?”

  Hope shook her head in that overbroad way littles have. “I have an owie on my leg.”

  Luis craned to look up at the slope. “There’s no way we’ll get her out up there. I can’t lift anything above my head, and you can barely walk. It’s through the fence with her, or we wait for them to come get us.”

  Nora pointed toward the gunship, still waiting patiently for them. “What about that?”

  Good question. The gap in the fence was maybe four feet away, but all in the open. Hope could use the posts to prop herself up. It would be slow, but doable. It all depended on the guy at Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson or Creech outside Las Vegas, the guy looking at them through a video screen right now and waiting for them to come out to play.