"This is the real thing," Z radioed to Rivera. "The Shiites also have a group of women and children with them, Mexican nationals. Putting them in a large familial group will improve their disguise."
"Decoys," Rivera said.
"Yes, sir. That's what we're thinking."
"We'll be tracking your every move," Rivera responded. "We're in the air, and we'll be watching from above."
"Okay, guys. These tangos are about to cross over into the United States," Stoker declared. "I'm getting the FBI on the line. The moment these guys cross the border, this surveillance needs their oversight."
After traveling for forty-five minutes, the convoy pulled onto a farm road and turned toward the Rio Grande. Stoker and Z remained at a distance. The three cars Stoker and Z had been following parked two hundred yards away from the river. The sun had just set, and the shadows were starting to overcome the light.
Z and Stoker parked their jeep in a cluster of trees about a quarter mile away from the radicals and Mexican families. On foot, they snuck up on the three vehicles and watched. There was no movement. Everything was as quiet as a night could be. The silence felt surreal. Stoker and Z waited undetected behind some vegetation, which grew reasonably well so close to the river. The terrorists stayed in their cars, and the Mexicans remained in the backs of the pickup trucks. Everyone just waited almost motionless. Over the next thirty minutes, darkness fell, and the stars came to life. The moon, in its waning crescent phase, offered a mere sliver of light in the cloudless sky.
Z and Stoker watched through infrared binoculars. The people in the beds of the trucks whispered occasionally. But then, as if by some unseen signal, the Mexican families started crawling out of the truck beds. They formed two groups. One group walked upriver forty yards, and another walked downriver for sixty yards. Stoker and Z did not dare follow them for fear of being detected by the Shiites. Just after the Mexicans had disappeared into the thick vegetation lining the river, two of the Expedition's doors, quietly opened. One by one, the six men rolled out and landed on the ground. They quickly crawled to the underbrush and disappeared toward the Rio Grande. The three automobiles started their engines and slowly rolled away with their lights off.
Now, with nobody within fifty yards of Stoker and Z, they dared whisper. "We've gotta see what's going on," Z said in a hushed tone. "Let me send a drone up. One with an infrared camera."
Z prepared the drone, manipulated a few buttons, and launched it quietly up into the air.
Over the radio, Rivera's voice came through to their earpieces. "Can you give me a sitrep?"
Stoker answered him in a whisper. "We've stopped pretty close to the Rio Grande, but everyone we were following has disappeared through the vegetation. We want to see how this all plays out, so we're sending up a drone."
"Let me know what you see," came Rivera's reply.
"Roger that."
Z fired up a tablet. The scene above the Rio Grande came into clear view. Thanks to the drone, they had a birds-eye view of the Shiite and Mexican groups. They could see the downriver group of Mexicans standing at the edge of the water. Then out of one corner of the screen, a raft rowed toward them and reached the shore where they waited.
The oarsman rowing this boat had been hired to meet them and ferry them to America. Immediately men, women, and children jumped into the raft and cast off, hoping not to touch Mexican soil again for a while.
When the boat reached the half-way point between the Mexican and American riverbanks, four spotlights lit up from the American side. In Spanish, a loud voice came over a bullhorn announcing the presence of the United States Border Patrol on the American side of the river. The voice from the bullhorn warned the crossers they would be detained if they tried to enter the United States of America.
But the soon-to-be emigrants knew the border patrol agents couldn't capture and detain all of them. Furthermore, the American side of the riverbank was full of lush sugar cane plants. Years ago, someone sympathetic to Mexican immigrants had planted the sugar cane there to make escaping through the foliage easier. The oarsman paddled on and approached a dark version of America's shining shores.
Two border patrol agents jumped out of hiding spots in the sugar cane just as the rowboat was about to make landfall. The experienced oarsman knew precisely what to do. He had helped hundreds of Mexicans cross these waters, and he had some tricks for the border patrol. With a few swift swipes of his paddle, he redirected the boat a little further downriver. The maneuver put fifteen yards of tall, thick sugar cane plants between the Mexicans and the border patrol agents.
The raft stopped abruptly as it slid up the riverbank. Via the drone's camera, Stoker and Z watched as Mexican men, women, and children jumped out of the boat. The emigrants grasped onto the sugar cane plants and pulled themselves up onto the shore. Then they began to run along the trails hundreds of their other compatriots had established as they sought for a better life.
One of the border patrol officers seemed to know these trails well. He ran through the sugar cane and intercepted a young man, who was carrying a young child in a colorful sling, and his wife. Their escape to a more prosperous life had ended.
Another border patrol agent nabbed a Mexican woman. Yet, of this first group, the border patrol managed to stop only four of the nine. The five Mexicans who escaped stood a good chance of making it to San Antonio, Dallas, or Houston and disappearing into the community.
Z zoomed the drone's camera out. The upriver group of Mexicans was now crossing the river in a raft. "We suspect these first two groups are the diversion," said Z to Stoker. "Let's see if we can find the tangos. That's who we really need to be tracking." Z made the drone descend to 300 feet, and the picture below the mini aircraft became much clearer. Huddled up in a patch of tall grass were the Shiites. They each had their backpacks on. But now, they were also wearing swim fins, masks, and goggles. "They're going to swim across after they've sacrificed the Mexicans."
Z zoomed out just in time to see the upstream raft landing on the shore. A border patrol SUV had just pulled up and was shining its lights on the newly arrived emigrants. The foot chase ensued, which gave the six Shiites the perfect moment to slip into the water. In a few seconds, they managed to swim across the river completely undetected. On the other side, they abandoned their masks, snorkels, and fins. Then they stepped three feet into the sugar cane before they squatted down and hid in the plants. There they waited quietly, listening to the border patrol agents while they situated the Mexicans they had captured into the back seats of their SUVs. Five minutes later, the border patrol agents used their spotlights to sweep the river and its banks. The Shiites were too deeply concealed in the sugar cane plants for the border patrol agents to detect them.
Satisfied with their spotlight sweep of the area, the border patrol jumped into their vehicles and drove away.
"The diversion worked," Z reported to Rivera over the radio. "All six of the tangos made it onto American soil. They're all yours."
"Roger that," came Rivera's voice in response. "We're about five thousand feet above you, and we're looking at them through our infrared now. But, can you get your annoying drone out of the way? It keeps blocking our view."
"Hey Rivera," Z said. "Don't disrespect the drone. It can get into some pretty tight spaces when you need it to."
"But right now, I need it out of my airspace."
Z hit a button, and the drone set an automatic flight path to return to Stoker and Z's location.
"With these tangos in America now, they are your responsibility, along with the FBI," Stoker radioed. "We'll cross the border legally and catch up with you ASAP."
Rivera and Jessica watched as the extremist Shiites—now illegal aliens in the United States—slowly climbed up the riverbank. Then they started to run in formation. They paid no mind to the crops in the farmers' fields as they jogged through acres of farmland. When they came across barbed wire and other obstacles, they overcame them with ease. It was apparent t
heir training had anticipated these obstructions.
After three miles they stopped. These men from Lebanon, Yemen, and Iran were approaching some more significant roads, and they needed to remain undetected. The men huddled in the middle of a field planted with an ankle-high crop. Jessica and Rivera observed the men removing water and energy bars from their backpacks. One of them also removed a cell phone. After powering the device up, it appeared he was sending a text.
The group continued to wait while sipping on water and snacking. Then the man's phone lit up, and he paid attention to the message that appeared. He gave a command, and the men slung their backpacks on and started their jog through the fields again. This time their course was due north. When they reached a two-lane road, they turned and continued running down the road. When a car would approach, the men left the road and scrambled into the field beside them. They had no idea Rivera and his team were watching their every move from above.
After running an additional two miles, a car up ahead of them flashed its lights. This time the men did not exit the road, but they kept running. The vehicle, a black Chevrolet Suburban, slowed as they approached. Then it rolled to a stop twenty yards ahead of them. The men slowed to a walking pace, walked up to the car and casually got in.
"Hey Stoker and Z," Rivera called out over the radio. What's your location?"
"We came through at the Ysleta border crossing about five minutes ago," Stoker answered. "Can you give us a sitrep?"
"These Iranians just got picked up about four miles to your southeast. Why don't you jump on Highway 375 and travel west? We'll do our best to navigate you toward them. They just climbed in a black Suburban with Texas plates. You’d better follow them for a while. Our bird will need to refuel."
"Roger that," Stoker said. "But where's the FBI?"
"The FBI is on their way. We just need to keep track of these guys. I bet the tangos jump on I-10. Let's see if they travel north or south."
A few minutes later, Stoker and Z arrived at I-10. "Do we go north or south, Rivera?"
"Give me a minute. They're approaching the exit a couple miles to the south of you."
"Roger that," Stoker said as he pulled the car over to wait.
A minute later Rivera's voice came through the earpiece. "They turned north, so give them two minutes to reach where you are. Then you can jump on the freeway and tail them."
Stoker pulled a bag out of the back seat. "Hey Z. If those terrorists are going to stay fueled and hydrated, so should we." We've got Gatorade, Coke, or V8 Fusion. What'll you have?"
"I packed my own poison," Z said as he pulled a liter of Mountain Dew out of his bag. "I'm ready for a long night of driving."
"Why don't you try to get some sleep?" Stoker said. "Then you can drive in a few hours. Save your caffeine for later."
Word came from the helicopter. The tangos in the Suburban were coming up on Stoker and Z in the jeep. Stoker pulled back onto the road and turned onto the entrance ramp to I-10. Z reclined his seat and closed his eyes. They merged onto the lightly traveled freeway and found themselves well behind the Suburban. "The license plate on their car is LS3-C4891," Stoker reported over the radio,” They still appear to be headed back toward El Paso.”
When the large SUV changed direction and continued its travels north into New Mexico, Stoker and Z followed. For the next few hours, they tracked the Suburban north on US Highway 54. Z slept. Stoker informed Rivera along the route.
"We'll fly about an hour ahead of you," Rivera radioed. "We'll rent a car. Then, we'll take our turn following them."
There wasn't much traffic on this highway as it meandered through a dark New Mexico night. Stoker elected to stay a mile behind the Suburban, which traveled at the speed limit.
Just after 3 o'clock in the morning, Rivera radioed Stoker. "We're coming up on your six. We're here to relieve you. And, you'll be meeting up with the FBI along the way."
"Thanks. I'll slow down so you can pass me. Z and I will stop for food and fuel."
A few minutes later, Rivera and another Espada Rápida warrior passed in a Chevrolet Impala. Stoker keyed the mic on his radio. "Hey amigo, how do we find these FBI guys?"
"Don't worry, Stoker. She'll find you."
Stoker pulled off at the next exit. There he fueled his car and bought some food. Z slept soundly. As he started accelerating the jeep up the onramp to get back on the freeway, his headlights illuminated a hitchhiker. Stoker gave no thought to picking up the straggler until the person held up a cardboard sign that read, "Mojave Stoker."
"Enough with the rattlesnake jokes, Rivera," Stoker muttered under his breath as he pulled over. Stoker unrolled the window.
As Rivera had hinted, the hitchhiker was a woman. "A Cuban doctor told me I could bum a ride from you."
"Jump in. But I must warn you, we're going to have trust issues. That Cuban doctor introduces me to a lot of shady characters."
The woman opened the jeep door. "I'm not going to lie to you, Stoker. I fit the bill." She pulled on the latch to move the seat forward so she could jump in the back seat. Z woke with a start, and his hand flew out in front of him just in time to save his face from smacking into the dashboard."
"Who's your friend?" the hitchhiker asked as she crawled through the small gap and into the back seat. Stoker laughed as Z's alertness went from sleep to enlivened, and his forehead pressed against the windshield."
"This is Z," Stoker said.
"You'll have to be a little more specific," she said. "Names are more than just a single letter."
"Good luck," Stoker said as he pushed Z back into sitting position and forced his seat back to normal. "Z does not do specific." Stoker reached across Z and pulled the door shut. He put the jeep into gear and started back up the freeway onramp.
"I'm Special Agent In Charge, Sarah Ahmadi, FBI JTTF."
"JTTF?" Stoker asked.
Z answered before Ahmadi could, with his eyes still closed. "Joint Terrorism Task Forces."
"How do you know about the Joint Terrorism Task Force?"
"No, it's not one task force. It is plural, task forces." His eyes were still closed and his head leaning against the jeep's window.
"Okay Grammar Girl. I didn't ask you to correct my English or even to define the JTTF. I asked you how you know about these JTTFs?"
"And there's an official reason I eluded your question about my name," Z responded. "Now let me sleep."
Ahmadi explained. "The Joint Terrorism Task Forces exist all around the United States. The FBI coordinates it, but our team members come from municipal law enforcement, Homeland Security, the TSA, military, and a handful of other organizations."
"The amoeba of the JTTF just swallows whomever it wants whenever it wants?" Stoker asked.
"We're not an amoeba. We're more like an immune system. We kick in and help out when the scourge rears its ugly head."
"I like your analogy," Stoker said. "Now that we're on American soil, I suspect the FBI will take over?"
"Oh no. You and Rivera are still in charge. You're in way too deep." Ahmadi said. "You, Doctor Stoker, are in the starting lineup now. You're leading and executing this mission through to the end. Welcome to the team."
"Rivera continues to lead," Z clarified while opening one eye. "But he keeps letting you be in charge, Stoker." Z closed his eye again. "You also overlooked one other impressive piece of information Agent Ahmadi shared with you."
"What's that?" Stoker asked.
"She is Special Agent In Charge," Z said. "She runs the whole task force."
"Does that mean, from the FBI's perspective, you're in charge of this whole 'Iranian bioterrorism coming in through Mexico' operation?" Stoker asked.
Z did not let her answer. "She's in charge of the whole Joint Terrorism Task Forces efforts—in the whole Universe."
"So, what are you doing here, following terrorists in the middle of the night? Shouldn't you be calling all the shots in a command center or something like that?"
"Usually, yes. But, some extenuating circumstances brought me into the field. And it feels great to be out of my office."
"What are the extenuating circumstances?"
"First, my intuition tells me this Iranian cell is a big deal. I think your team is onto something huge. Second, I heard the guy running this op—that would be you Stoker—is a natural leader and operator, who could use some training."
"So, you just turned over your responsibilities to your next in line and flew down here?"
"Not exactly. My boss, a deputy director, doesn't let me just take off on a hunch. I need some proof. You and Dr. Rivera have provided enough to set off hellacious alarm bells in my head. But, my deputy director in Washington D.C. is more jaded. He needs a bit more justification. Besides, my boss would want me to send agents to do the fieldwork, instead of getting out into the field myself.
"That’s why I arranged to take off three days of personal time. I've spent the last 48 hours handing off my work to my next in line. Then I flew down here—on my own dime I might add."
"You took time off to come and do your job?" Stoker asked.
"Yes. And, Rivera tells me you're a psychiatrist. Does using personal time to go out and do field work make me crazy?"
"I don't know. I'm taking time off from being a psychiatrist to do fieldwork. Nobody's paying me. I'm not in a position to evaluate your situation objectively."
Ahmadi laughed. "I could get in a lot of trouble for pulling this little stunt—taking personal time off to follow a hunch and work in the field."
Z chimed in sarcastically. "Oh gosh! We don't like gritty people like you. That kind of out-of-the-box thinking's not going to work with us."
Silent Strike Page 15