by Siena West
“We aren’t born knowing that. Excavation is an acquired skill. We train students in excavation and survey techniques and teach them how to record and study artifacts.”
“Wait a sec, Dr. Vargas. Excavation I get. But what’s survey?”
“Archaeologists walk a transect—a line plotted on a topographic map—and keep aligned with a compass. They space themselves along the transect at intervals of 10 to 20 meters, depending on the terrain, and look for sites or isolated artifacts.” She laughed. “That’s why a lot of us have developed that hunchback look—eyes down, always searching for something on the ground. And you forgot—I’m Elena. Does this make sense?”
“It does—Elena.”
“We’re even showing the students how to rebuild and stabilize rooms. That’s something they can use in the real world! I hope we’ll have time for a tour before you leave. You can stack up a few wall stones, get your hands muddy.”
“I’d like that—the tour, not the stacking-up-stones part—so we better start. Let me tell you why I’m here. The Phoenix field office is spearheading an investigation into looting in Arizona. We’ve heard rumors, confirmed by on-the-ground intelligence and electronic surveillance, that the Sinaloa cartel is planning to steal ancient Native American artifacts from archaeological sites. The details aren’t known yet. It could be a money-laundering scheme or a new way of raising cash for the operation.” Based in Culiacán, the powerful, vicious cartel controlled the border between Tíjuana and Sonora, pushing halfway into Chihuahua where it collided violently with the rival Juárez cartel.
“Dios mio—the cartel plans to loot artifacts from sites? Most of the land here is federal—reservation or National Forest. How on earth could they pull that off? Not to mention it’s a criminal act, on several levels.”
Jorgensen nodded. “I know, it sounds impossible. The implications of this are staggering. If a Mexican cartel can cross the border and steal priceless antiquities, from federal land, no less—there’s nothing they can’t do.
“We think they must have cooperation from the locals, willing or not. The Lakeside Resident Agency has jurisdiction over the reservation. That’s why Agent Rodriguez is part of the team. We think the cartel may recruit gang members on the reservation. The Sinaloans may even have conscripted ranchers with a history of pot hunting, people who would know where to locate sites.” Poor Tinker, Elena thought. Maybe he’d be swept up in the net, too. It was clear the FBI had no real target but was shooting at random at anything that moved.
“Inroads of the Sinaloa cartel into Arizona and involvement of U.S. citizens aren’t new. Arrests and indictments go back to 1993 and even earlier. DEA busted organizations affiliated with the cartel in Tucson in 2016 and in the Phoenix suburbs in 2017. In fact, Sinaloa considers Phoenix its property. It’s now the focal point for large-scale distribution and shipment of drugs.”
“But don’t most drug smugglers use mules?”
“Yes, to get across the most remote locations along the border. The Sinaloans use backpackers—burreros, or mules—to move drugs through the desert near San Simon and Willcox. The drugs end up in Tucson and Phoenix where they’re moved in vehicles along the interstates.
“Two things are alarming about this. This is the first time the cartel has pushed this far north. And the antiquities trade is new. Nobody heard of such things before this year.”
“So why involve me?” Elena said. “I don’t see how I can help you.”
The sun lines around Jorgensen eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Oh, but you can, Dr. Vargas. The operation needs an archaeologist. You’re the expert on the archaeology of this area, and we’d like to hire you as a consultant.”
Elena was dumbfounded. In all the years she’d studied and sweated to become an archaeologist, she never imagined she’d work with the FBI.
“It may not be coincidence we’ve seen the number of looted sites increase this summer.” She told him about the potted sites found on survey and the desecrated graves. “Do you think the cartel is carrying out this vandalism?”
“That’s what we need to find out. If the cartel operates its artifact-theft operation the same way as its drugs, it won’t have a hierarchical organization. Instead, they have circles and networks of criminals, and the criminal’s position in the drug culture determines participation. Together, small groups targeting archaeological sites could accumulate quite a hoard.”
“What do you want me to do?” Elena said.
“You’ll advise us on the archaeology of the region, such as pointing out sites the cartel might target. If we’re able to track any stolen artifacts, we’re hoping you can identify them and help us figure out where they came from.”
“That’s not always easy. Most pots don’t have a sticker on them that says ‘made on the Taylor Ranch,’ for example. But we can figure out if a pot was a burial offering. In that case, the pot hunters would have violated federal and state laws.”
“Also, when you find a vandalized ruin,” Jorgensen said, “you can help by documenting the damage and bringing back any refuse the looters leave behind. It might be possible to link the evidence to the thieves.”
“On survey, we document looted sites now, but we can be more precise.” Elena clapped, laughing. “Oh boy! We’ll be Junior G-Men!” The radio programs and kids’ clubs of the 1930s and 1940s were law-and-order themed and one of J. Edgar Hoover’s most curious ideas. They were part of FBI history.
“You know about the Junior G-Men?” Jorgensen said. “That’s amazing.”
“Not really. We Internet addicts know a bunch of arcane stuff. True-crime stories intrigue me, don’t ask me why. When I’m home, I Google everything and get caught in crime-and-punishment loops like most people do in cat videos on YouTube. Perhaps I’ll be a mystery novelist when I retire.”
Elena chuckled but then grew sober. “I confess I’m apprehensive about a pot-raiding sting. I remember the Utah incident a few years back. It ended in disaster, as I recall.” The FBI and other agencies arrested twenty-four people living in Blanding, many of them community and church leaders, in a two-year pot-hunting sting. It was sensational, with overtones of religious persecution and racism—most of the pot hunters were members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. There were accusations of FBI and ATF mishandling. Two indicted men committed suicide.
“Understood. The FBI screwed that up big-time. We’d heard the pot hunters were well armed, and we followed protocol for such situations—we went in with a hell of a lot of firepower. We cuffed suspects, and we shackled them. Because of Blanding, we want to do it right. No ankle shackles for 70-year-old citizens, I promise.”
The Utah incident was too reminiscent of such huge FBI fiascos as Waco and Ruby Ridge. Raised in a multiethnic border state, Elena was skeptical about law enforcement in general and the federal kind in particular.
“These people aren’t strangers, Agent Jorgensen. Young men of the community, Apache and Anglo, work alongside the students and play volleyball with us. We buy our gas and groceries in town. I’m friends with many people, including the trader at the White Mountain Trading Post your colleague interviewed. It would be a shame if your project compromised those friendships.”
Elena was unsure if she wanted to be part of something that might pit friend against friend, all of them armed. It was something that might end in catastrophe. She thought of Tinker Reidhead showing off his beautiful pots. She hoped for his sake he hadn’t been fibbing about their provenance.
Jorgensen sighed, his gaze wandering to the view in the big picture window. “I understand,” he repeated. “I will do everything in my power to make sure the innocent aren’t caught up along with the guilty.”
Elena met the agent’s eyes, blue-bright in the afternoon light pouring through the window. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Agent Jorgensen.”
“Do we have a deal, then?”
“We have a deal.” Elena hoped to God she had made the
right decision.
As they stood to shake hands, Elena felt that internal shock again, as if she’d touched a lamp with a worn cord. “So what do you call this operation, anyway?”
“Don’t ask me why, but the honchos have labeled it Lightning Bolt.”
* * *
Elena and Jorgensen stood in the parking lot next to the FBI vehicle in the slanting afternoon light. The director had toured him around the field school as promised. She showed him the excavations at the pueblo and the ossuary where she told him about the mystery of the unknown feature containing a jumble of smashed human bones. The room stabilization mystified him—it seemed more like playing in the mud than archaeology—and the students working in the lab demonstrated how they classified and catalogued artifacts. The tour over, the two were reluctant to part.
“Elena, I have one more favor to ask. It strikes me after this tour that I’m totally clueless about archaeology. I wouldn’t recognize a site if I fell into a pot hole. Can you take me to an archaeological ruin? A real one, not one reconstructed for the public?”
She smiled, because it would be another opportunity to see him. Then she gave herself a mental kick. This was business, and she should not be musing about the tall man with striking eyes and Robert Redford hair.
“That’s a great idea, Agent Jorgensen. When you understand what kind of country the mountain land is, how isolated and rugged, you may have second thoughts about the feasibility of your cartel stealing our antiquities.
“But you can’t wear those shoes,” she warned, taking in his well-polished Italian loafers. They were clean, because somehow, he had missed the bird poop in the yard.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, his twinkling eyes belying his words. The agent thanked Elena for lunch and the tour. “Consider yourself a member of the Lightning Bolt team. We’ll be in touch, and I’ll look forward to our trip.” He scribbled on the back of his card. “This is my personal cell number. Call me right away if you see something suspicious.”
Jorgensen slid behind the wheel, and she watched until the SUV was out of sight.
* * *
After dinner, a storm built for the first time that summer. Lightning flashed over the Mogollon Rim, and the wind rose. By ones and twos, staff and students collected on the lawn in front of the ranch house to watch the show. They stood in awe, faces lifted like budding flowers waiting for rain. Echoes of thunder rolled, seeming to encircle the ranch. Highlighted against the lightning-ripped clouds, the treetops bent and swayed in the wind, which brought the fresh sweetness of rain.
Elena’s porch offered a front-row view of the show. Maggie and Cole appeared, holding hands as if they were teenagers. They settled on the porch, and Elena brought out the tequila, which was disappearing fast. She’d have to replenish the supply soon.
The director told them about Jorgensen’s visit. “Jeez, not fair I wasn’t here today,” Maggie said. She had gone off to survey after Greenlaw left. “All the good stuff happens when I’m not here. An FBI agent! Yowza. Sue told me he was quite a hunk for an old guy.” The lab director had spent the afternoon herding the students, who’d done their best to impress the handsome agent.
“Don’t forget what he told me about the cartel and pot hunting,” Elena said. “It’s terrifying. If the cartel is looting sites, we might be in danger.”
“You’re shitting me, Tía. Drug dealers stealing artifacts? Here? How?” Cole sputtered into his beer.
“Jorgensen doesn’t know for sure, so don’t worry, mi’jo. They’re just beginning the investigation. Nevertheless, we should try to figure out a way to keep safe.”
“Maybe we should make a lot of noise, like you’re supposed to do in bear country. Yell and scream and beat drums. Too bad Maggie can’t survey with us—she’d be sure to make enough noise.” Cole’s wicked grin was barely visible in the dim light, but Maggie punched him in the arm, anyway.
“Basta, niños. That’s a good idea. You should carry a whistle and blow it occasionally. It would prevent you from sneaking up on an armed pot hunter.”
“Or an unarmed bear,” Cole said.
“Every citizen has a right to arm bears!” Maggie’s laugh boomed out into the night.
“We’ll buy whistles in Show Low on the next grocery run. And Maggie—this clinches it. No riding in the boonies without Cole—I’m serious. Yes, you’ve been working alone all summer. But you had a vehicle and could get away fast if necessary. Getting away isn’t as easy on horseback.”
Maggie scowled at Elena but said nothing.
As they talked, the wind shifted, and the storm moved away. No rain would fall tonight. The storm would leave only cool, damp air; lingering growls of thunder; and disappointment. The show ended, and the sky watchers drifted off to bed. Cole and Maggie said goodnight and walked to their tent, still squabbling. The wind brought Maggie’s fading laughter. Another day had ended. It had been quite a day, at that.
Chapter 6
Wildfire
In Arizona, dry lightning is a thing to be feared. In the early summer, before the monsoon rains bless the parched land, the grass and brush are tinder dry. With a single bolt, fire can wake and devour the forest like a monstrous, hungry beast. Last night’s light show stirred that sleeping beast. The camp woke to the unmistakable scent of a brush fire and a light haze of smoke.
Norm shared the news in the kitchen where Elena cadged a cup of coffee before breakfast. The battery-backup, two-way radio for emergencies crackled to life at dawn.
“A Forest guy called and said the Chediski lookout saw smoke down off the rim, not too far from here. It’s in the burned area left from the big fire, and there’s not much fuel up there. The Forest is gonna keep an eye on it, but they think it’s a snag that will burn out on its own.”
A curl of unease crawled down Elena’s spine. Over three summers working at the Taylor Ranch, she had learned not to take anything at face value: not the weather, not progress on the excavations, not student temperaments. And not the reassurances of a forest ranger high and safe in a fire lookout.
Despite her unease, Elena sent the crews off to work as usual. She warned Cole about the fire although his survey area was far from the ranch. Maggie missed the warning; she left early to start work.
As the morning wore on toward noon, the smoke thickened enough to be scratchy in the throat and itchy in the eyes, and her discomfort increased. Elena found Norm collecting eggs in the hen house.
“The smoke’s getting thicker. I’m worried.”
Norm was unmoved, dropping eggs into a towel-lined enamel pan. “I’m sure it’s just the wind shifting from east to west, like it always does around noontime. It’s blowing the smoke toward us.” Another egg plopped into the pan. “The Forest lookout on Chediski will radio us if the fire gets to be a problem.” He searched under a broody hen, and came up empty-handed. “The ranch has been here for more than a hundred years, Doc, and I expect we’ll survive one more summer.”
Elena had experienced the nagging sense of unease too often to ignore it. “Maggie’s out there surveying, Norm, and she doesn’t know about the fire. If it spreads, she might get cut off from camp.”
Norm shrugged. “Maggie’s one smart little lady. She can take care of herself.”
Elena’s discomfort shifted into anger. “I’m not sure, Norm. After lunch, I’ll take a truck and reconnoiter. You can stay here and hold down the fort.” Norm gave no sign he recognized her little dig.
* * *
At lunch, Elena drew the staff in camp away for a private conversation. “Norm seems to think there’s no danger,” she reported, “but I’m worried about Maggie. She doesn’t know about the fire, and she’s—well, she’s Maggie. She gets so engrossed in her work, she wouldn’t notice a marching band or a circus passing by.” It was odd that Mel whitened under her tan.
“What about the survey crew?” Tim said.
“They should be fine. Cole headed out to Red Mesa today, and that
’s the opposite direction of the fire.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Don’t alarm the students.” It would not be lost on them that there was no fire department on the Taylor Ranch—or anywhere nearby. “Just carry on as usual. But keep a real close eye on that smoke. Watch for any sign that the fire is coming close to the ranch.”
“And what are you going to do?” Mel said.
“Drive toward the area where Maggie is surveying and try to find out if the fire has spread in that direction.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mel said. “You shouldn’t go alone. My kids are still working in wall fall in two quads. They’ll be fine without me.”
“Are you sure? This could get dicey.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, then. Make up an excuse to keep them busy while you’re gone. In the meantime, I’ll get the truck loaded.
“Now listen up. Tim and Sue, I’m not sure I trust the Forest Service, and Norm seems way too casual about the fire. If it looks like it’s getting close to the ranch, get everybody out of camp. Don’t worry about the dig or personal stuff. Get the students in the trucks and drive away.” The fire could be upon them in a heartbeat.
“What about the animals?” tenderhearted Sue Landerman, the lab director, asked.
“Everything on the ranch is Norm’s responsibility. Don’t worry about anything but the students and yourselves.”
* * *
Maggie was having a spectacular day. She surveyed in a valley where she knew the Apache had farmed in the early 1900s. To an archaeologist, Chediski Farms was like dessert after a good-for-you dinner. A narrow stream cut through the valley. Once, the Apache dug ditches to carry water from the creek to their fields. Now, even before the rains, the valley was green with grass, dotted with a few junipers and young piñon trees.
She hoped to find farm sites and dams, maybe more, and she wasn’t disappointed. But the riches of archaeology in the valley meant slow going. Recording and photographing the features took a long time.