Though he didn’t like going into the main house of the hacienda, Rodriguez did so when he had to meet with Santiago to discuss his plans for the mercenaries. These meetings took place in a small office just off of Santiago’s quarters, to the left of the main entrance to the building.
“How many men do you want me to bring with us tonight, Capitan?” Sergeant Rodriguez said.
“In addition to you and me?” Santiago said, “four should be enough, Sargento. Two to escort our guests and two to maintain watch. Shoulder weapons and side arms. The Arabs are supplying their own vehicle and driver on the other side and carrying their own materiel, so we won’t need any manpower to move anything.”
“I don’t like these Arab terrorists, Capitan,” Garcia said. “They are not to be trusted at all. Even while they pay for our services, they look down their noses at us. In spite of what they do, they think they’re better than anyone, that we’re all infidels and unbelievers, unworthy of being in their presence. I think that all of their plans against the United States is just going to bring the wrath of President Bush down on us.”
“We are not paid to think,” Santiago said, “only to act. But privately, Miguel, I agree with you. They are dangerous and we must be ready to move on when the time comes. This has been a rich time for us, but all good things must come to an end.”
Before Sergeant Rodriguez could answer, there was a knock at the door to the office. Without waiting for an answer, Youssef Daumudi opened the unlocked door and stepped into the room.
“It is my understanding that you will be escorting Humzan and myself this evening?” Daumudi said, ignoring the glare of Rodriguez at the rudeness to his officer.
“Yes,” Santiago said, “that is what my sergeant and I were just discussing.”
“We are ready to leave now,” Daumudi said. “Humzan does not wish to miss the meeting with our confederates on the other side of the border.”
“Humzan?” Santiago said. “So you are not going to be making the trip?”
“I will be accompanying you to make sure that everything is in order,” Daumudi said. “If the route is as secure as you say it is, then I will be coming back to make further preparations for our next trip. For now, that is all you need to know.”
“Get the men ready, Sergeant,” Santiago said, turning to Rodriguez. He could see that the big sergeant was becoming seriously angry with the attitude of the Arab terrorist and wanted him out of the office before something was said, or done.
“Yes, Capitan,” Rodriguez said, and he walked past Daumudi who had to move quickly out of the doorway to keep from being jostled.
“Your sergeant forgets his place,” Daumudi said.
“His place, as you put it,” Santiago said, “is at my side. Which is where he has been for over eight years now. I trust him completely.”
Leaving the suggestion that he did not trust Daumudi unsaid, Santiago simply waited for the other man to continue the conversation. Instead of saying a word, Daumudi turned and left the office as rudely as he had arrived.
It was the early hours of the morning when two Silverado Suburbans pulled out of the garage and up to the front of the main house at the hacienda. Standing on the large round porch of the house were Eduardo Masque, Garcia Santiago, and the two al-Qaeda members, Youssef Daumudi and Ammand Humzan.
“I still do not see the need for this very late hour,” Daumudi said.
“You understand that we must maintain the security of our facility,” Masque said. “This time of the night there is very little traffic on the U.S. side of the border. We have also arranged for a number of coyotes to move groups of people into the United States at a number of sites some distance from here. The U.S. Border Patrol will be very distracted by the activity.
“The coyotes have orders to allow a large number of their people to fall into the hands of the Border Patrol. The agents will have their hands full for some time tonight and won’t be able to set up the roadblocks or even to man the watchtowers around this part of the border. It would have been simpler for us to supply the transportation for you on the U.S. side…”
“No,” Daumudi said, “you have done very well so far, but we have our own network to depend on in the United States. If things tonight go as you have assured us they will, our business will expand considerably. And you will be liberally rewarded.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Masque said. “And if you need my assistance to help bring down the United States and its corrupt people, you have but to ask. Most of the requests you have made have already been completed, the rest will be done within twenty-four hours.”
The requests Masque had mentioned were a surprise to Santiago. And he was not a man to like surprises. Masque had been letting his hatred of the United States blind his business sense, as well as his trust in his best lieutenant. Santiago was going to have to maintain appearances for the time being while making preparations of his own.
Stepping up to the trailing Suburban, Santiago opened the rear driver’s-side door with a flourish, bowing slightly to Daumudi as he walked up to the door. Stiffly ignoring Santiago, Daumudi first set the satchel he was carrying into the vehicle then climbed into the SUV himself.
Going around to the other side of the Suburban, Ammand Humzan entered the rear passenger area of the SUV under the glaring eyes of Miguel Rodriguez. Standing right next to the front door of the vehicle, Rodriguez made certain that the front seat would only be taken by Santiago.
Standing around the leading Suburban were some of the hard-faced mercenaries that made up Santiago’s team. Most of the rest of the men were back in the barracks. Only the back of the head of the driver sitting at the wheel of the first Suburban could be seen. The man at the wheel of the trailing SUV maintained his grip on the wheel and didn’t bother watching the men on the porch of the main house.
The two men standing on the outside of the lead vehicle were both armed with vicious-looking 5.56mm Galil SAR short assault rifles. Their combat harnesses held pouches of spare magazines and pistol holsters at their hips. The finish on the weapons was a little worn from use, but all of the guns were spotless and looked to be in perfect operating condition.
Over his shoulder, Rodriguez had a 9mm Uzi submachine gun, that weapon also showing hard use and careful maintenance. For himself, Santiago was only wearing his shoulder holster and his Glock Model 18C machine pistol.
The sidearm was for appearances. Santiago knew that there was a Galil MAR micro assault rifle, the stock folded and a thirty-five-round magazine locked into place, underneath the front seat of the suburban. Next to the deadly little assault rifle was a shoulder bag containing six spare magazines. He also knew that the more attention you paid to the details, the less you would be surprised as developments occurred.
When Santiago climbed into the trailing Suburban, Rodriguez quickly moved to the same place in the front vehicle. When the doors slammed shut on both vehicles, the heavy, solid thunk of their closing was the only clue to the fact that both Suburbans were heavily armored. They were effectively light tanks, only missing an upper turret with a cannon to be the equivalent of a WWII scout tank.
The small convoy moved out of the hacienda’s gate while under the watchful gaze of the two mercenaries standing guard. Normally, the mercenaries were exempt from such duties, but Masque only wanted his best shown to the Arabs. The powered gate closed behind the last vehicle and their red taillights disappeared behind the heavy doors.
The trip taken by the Suburbans was a short one. Less than half a mile away from the hacienda, on the side of a small hill, was the mouth of its namesake, the Crystal mine. The machinery and most of the buildings around the mine shaft were crumbling with decay. Only the front of the mine and the heavy timbers framing it looked well maintained. A wide steel gate inside the mouth of the mine powered open at the touch of a remote control. The vehicles drove directly into the wide opening of the mine.
Both Suburbans fit well inside the mouth of the mine w
ith room to spare. Getting out of the rear vehicle, it didn’t take long for Daumudi to comment on the situation.
“I do not see why it was necessary to take two vehicles to cross from the estate to this entrance,” Daumudi said.
“It was simply a courtesy extended to you by Masque,” Santiago said. “And the simple fact is that no one can see inside the tinted windows of these vehicles. Anyone watching would only be able to say they saw two vehicles come in, and later they will see those same vehicles leave. But they will not be able to say how many people were in them at any time.”
“Your caution and attention to detail is commendable,” Daumudi said. “But we have yet to see this vaunted secure route you have into the United States.”
“This is the entry to that route,” Santiago said as he turned and started to walk deeper into the mine.
All of the mercenaries climbed out of the Suburbans. Now it could be seen that the drivers of the two vehicles were armed the same as the two guards. The Arabs ignored the display of firepower around them as they followed Santiago down the tunnel.
A few hundred feet from the mouth of the mine, Santiago stopped and pointed to the mouth of a side tunnel. A stack of boxes and crates could be seen just inside the entrance to the tunnel.
“That is some of the ordnance, weapons, and supplies you have asked us to receive and store for you,” Santiago said. “They are also ready when you want them. Shall we go on or would you like to inspect the stores?”
“That will not be necessary,” Daumudi said, “we should be making our crossing now.”
“The trip will not take long,” Santiago said.
The group quickly came to a large, open elevator cage. The elevator rode in a shaft that had a string of bare bulbs running down along one corner of it. The bulbs showed the openings of a number of side shafts inside the mine, but in spite of the lights, the bottom of the shaft couldn’t be seen.
Once everyone was in the elevator, Rodriguez pulled the overhead gate down and then worked the controls. With a slight lurch, the cage began to move down, lowered on cables controlled from an electric winch.
The cage traveled down several hundred feet before Rodriguez moved the control to the stop position. One of the other mercenaries lifted the gate at the back of the elevator cage and the group moved out into a wide, well-lit tunnel. Directly in front of them were four open ore cars and a small engine. Three of the cars had been fitted with passenger seats. The last car in the small train was filled with a large box with a closed lid. The lid had a large handle on its front, as well as a lock hasp and two latches.
“This is the box we were told to bring down into the mine,” Santiago said. “Only my men worked on moving it. They said it was too heavy for them to get it here in one piece. So they brought it down here in two sections and bolted it together.”
“It looks satisfactory,” Daumudi said. “But why is the car holding it not attached to the rest of the train?”
“I wasn’t told what it was for,” Santiago said, “only to get it down here. It is only a matter of a moment to hook it to the train, but our speed is cut down noticeably when we pull it. We left it off for the time being to eliminate the excess strain on the engine.”
The men all climbed into the ore cars and Rodriguez got into the seat of the engine. The boxy engine was nothing more than an electric donkey, its motor driving geared wheels with power from a large collection of lead-acid batteries. Unhooking a charging cable from the top of the battery box, Rodriguez turned on the power and moved the speed control forward. Smoothly and with little noise, the engine started pulling the small train into the earth.
More strings of bare bulbs illuminated the walls of the mine as they slipped past. The tunnel seemed to go on forever with only the passing support timbers showing besides the rock. Then, the rock walls suddenly changed. They were much rougher with sharp edges to the cuts that removed the rock. Then the walls suddenly ended as the train entered a huge cavern.
The line of lights continued on alongside the tracks laid on the floor of the cavern. A small trestle ran from the mouth of the mine tunnel down to the floor of the cavern. The train stopped at a signal from Santiago as it reached the bottom of the trestle. In spite of themselves, the two Arabs were looking around open-mouthed at the interior of the cavern.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Santiago said. “It was discovered quite by accident a number of years ago by a professor who was trying to trace some kind of bat that makes its home down here. After an earthquake, the bats no longer came in and out of the mine every night. Some nights they didn’t come out at all, others they did. When he came in to investigate that peculiar behavior, he found where the wall of the mine shaft had collapsed, exposing this series of caverns.”
Though they were listening to Santiago’s words, Daumudi and Humzan were looking about at the gleaming points of the stalactites extending down from the ceiling, some of them touching the tips of the stalagmites that stretched up from the floor to meet them. With the engine stopped, there was no sound in the great open cavern except for the dripping of water and the sound of the men’s breathing.
“It was that professor’s poor fortune for Felix Zapatista to learn about his discovery. The Zapatista cartel had dug dozens of tunnels underneath the border. But they were only a few dozen feet at most below the surface. A number of them have been found over the years, especially when the authorities used sensing equipment and earth-penetrating radar.
“But this cave is huge and natural. It is too deep to show up on most types of scans. Zapatista had it excavated and improved. And he installed this electric train. Over several years, he’s moved tons of cocaine and marijuana through here.”
“It is truly beautiful,” Daumudi said. “You leave these lights on all the time?”
“It is much easier to notice a burned-out bulb or break in the lines when we leave them on all the time,” Santiago said. “That way we notice when they go dark before we need to turn them on for a trip.”
“Where does this cave come out?” Humzan asked.
“You shall see,” Santiago said. He signaled to Rodriguez and the small train started back up on its way.
The group of cars moved more than a mile along the floor of the cavern before the Arabs began noticing a terrible smell in the still air. The mercenaries all ignored the stench. They well knew what it was.
“There is a charnel pit over there,” Santiago said pointing to a black opening in the floor a short distance away. “It was first used by Zapatista to get rid of the bodies of the Indians he used to build his tunnel and lay the rails. There were some recent additions to the bodies of some people who had used this tunnel without permission. We ran out of lime to spread over the bodies is all.”
“Security for this tunnel has been breached?” Daumudi said.
“No,” Santiago said, “you can be sure all of the leaks have been plugged. Only my men and I work the train system now. Zapatista had trusted others who are no longer a problem.”
The train continued down the track, pulling a lingering trace of the stench of decaying flesh along with it. Finally coming to another small trestle, the train began moving up as well as ahead. The mouth of another tunnel loomed in the cavern wall. As the train was swallowed by the tunnel mouth, Santiago turned to the Arabs.
“Welcome to the United States,” he said.
Chapter Sixteen
Once back at the ranch house, Reaper, Manors, and Hausmann took off their 5.11 tactical vests and laid their weapons down alongside them on one of the couches in the poolroom. Sitting down at the bar, Reaper took out the map, paper, and sample of material he had picked up in the barn. Pouring the dust and blue material into a clean ashtray, Reaper poked about in the stuff with the point of his Emerson CQB-7 knife.
Having stepped out of the room, and been followed by the rottweilers and bulldog, Hausmann went into the house proper. Coming back a few minutes later, he was holding a small book and a powerful hand magn
ifier loupe. Handing the magnifier to Reaper, Hausmann stepped behind the bar and drew three mugs of cold beer from the tap. Passing out the beer, he leaned down on the bar top with both elbows.
“So, Sherlock,” Hausmann said, “made any sense of the clues yet?”
“Geology isn’t exactly my field,” Reaper said as he held up the ashtray and examined the material through the magnifier. He set down the ashtray and the loupe and picked up his beer.
“This stuff looks like some kind of rock chips or flakes,” Reaper said, indicating the ashtray. “It sure isn’t any bits of paint, no matter how blue it is.”
“Let me take a look,” Hausmann said.
Pushing the magnifier and ashtray across the bar top, Reaper lifted his beer mug to his lips and took a long pull. Having watched the little exchange between the two men, Manors continued sitting at the end of the bar, quietly drinking his beer.
Grunt, the youngest of the rottweilers, shoved his big head up underneath the Border Patrol agent’s left arm. Flipping up the arm with his muzzle, Grunt pointed out his opinion that the arm in question would be put to much better use rubbing his head rather than just being there. Manors started to scratch behind the big dog’s ears as he watched the other men.
Lifting up the ashtray, Hausmann held it close to his eyes while standing over a lamp at the end of the bar. Through the magnifier, he could see that the chips of material were sharp-edged fragments, far too thick to be paint flakes. They looked like shattered pieces from much larger crystals.
Setting the magnifier and sample down, Hausmann started flipping through the pages of the small hard-cover book he had opened on the bar.
“So, Watson,” Reaper said, “is the game afoot?”
“So you’ve read Doyle,” Hausmann said. “Well, I don’t know about the game, but I think I know what this blue stuff is.”
“Hey,” Reaper said, “you really do know geology!”
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