“Tetas?” Jerry asked.
Jaime looked uneasy, but Nicole said, “It means teats, Jerry. They look like tits, so the Mexicans, probably male Mexicans, charmingly nicknamed them Tetas de Cabras. Goat tits.”
“Don’t look like any tits I’ve ever seen.”
“How many goats have you known, Jerry?”
Jaime, although wanting to add that the Indians called the peaks the Tetakawis, remained silent, leery of raising Nicole’s ire with a wrong comment. But he was getting a little tired of walking around on eggshells.
The Marina Seca, or dry marina, was chockablock with yachts high and dry, held aloft by metal stands. The area bustled with activity and buzzed with the sound of machinery as boats were scraped, sanded and painted. Boatyard workers and boat owners worked side by side, preparing vessels of all sizes and configurations for return to their natural environment.
Walking through the dusty work area, Nicole spied Water Princess, her disagreeable captain yelling at a Mexican worker. Guy stays in such a dither he’s gonna give himself an ulcer, she thought. She noticed, with more than a little satisfaction, that the sailor’s antics seemed to be falling on highly disinterested ears. The worker, a silent power tool in hand, was paying as little attention to the angry Gringo as he was to the gouges in Water Princess’s huge keel.
In a Ford Bronco parked on the shady side of Water Princess, a black-haired man wearing reflective wraparound sunshades smirked at the captain’s useless tirade. Only when the American looked as though he might actually slug the Mexican did he exit the Bronco, walk very close to the worker, and say a few words. The laborer immediately threw himself into grinding the keel as if his life depended on it.
Nicole was impressed. I’d like to know what “Sunglasses” said to inspire such a lively response. The man must be a motivational genius. She watched as Sunglasses threw a contemptuous look at the ineffectual captain, sauntered back to his Bronco, and turned up his stereo to drown out the grinder’s whine.
“So much for the laid back life of yachting,” Nicole commented. Just as she spoke the grinding suddenly stopped, and in the silence the captain heard Nicole’s caustic remark.
“Up yours,” he spat.
Nicole tossed her hair and kept walking.
“What was that all about?” Jerry asked. He waited for her to fill him in, but when she didn’t, he said, “Forget I asked.”
Nicole gave him a mysterious smile and commented that she thought all these boats out of the water looked marooned, especially those that, judging by thick coatings of dust, had been stored a long time. In an isolated corner, cordoned off by ropes and Do not Enter signs in Spanish and English, sat the most bereft looking vessel of all: Hot Idea. Someone with a sick sense of humor had hung a skull and crossbones on her flagstaff.
A police officer, slumped in a black, yellow and white cruiser, and listening to blaring rancho music, scrambled from his seat and sprang to attention when the trio ducked under a rope. Jaime made a beeline for the transom, Jerry and Nicole close on his heels.
Hot Idea’s keel rested on thick wooden blocks under her keel, and carpeted metal stands cantilevered against her hull to hold her upright. To Jerry’s thinking, the whole thing looked a little precarious.
They slowly circled the boat, Nicole wrinkling her nose at the stench of sea life drying on the barnacle encrusted bottom. When Jaime swung onto a transom ladder and deftly climbed onto the boat’s aft deck, Nicole easily followed, but Jerry continued to closely inspect the hull.
“Jerry, do you want me to come get you?” Nicole cooed.
“Jaime, there’s nothing worse than a mean woman. She knows damned well I have an aversion to my feet leaving terra firma.”
Nicole fixed him with an impatient glare and planted her hands on her hips. In the face of such disapproval, Jerry took a deep breath and blew it out. “Oh, all right. Here I come, ready or not.” He reluctantly climbed the shaky ladder, but once on deck he was surprised how solid the boat felt.
Nicole and Jaime had already scaled two more sets of short stairs to the flying bridge and motioned for Jerry to follow. Carefully holding onto rails until he reached the bridge, he sank onto a solid bench in the center of the deck. Craning his neck to look down, he estimated that it was at least twenty long feet to the ground. “Jesus, I hate this. I like boats when they’re in the water, but there’s something real unnatural about being high and dry,” he moaned. “Especially high.”
“Those in the know call it being on the hard,” Nicole commented, using a term she picked up from cruisers the night before. “Some boats spend every summer here while their owners escape to cooler climes.”
“Some life, huh?” Jerry said.
“Didn’t work out too well for the Goodalls,” Nicole commented, almost in a whisper.
Jerry found the gumption to push himself to standing. “Speaking of, where were they found?”
“In the aft cabin.” Jaime pointed behind them to the deck they crossed to get to the bridge. “Their sleeping quarters. It looks as though they barricaded themselves inside. When we go back down to the main deck, you will see that someone chopped down the door.”
“Chopped?” Jerry asked.
“Zactly. Machetes are very sharp. In the right hands they can fell a small tree in a single blow.”
“Jesus,” Jerry muttered, blowing a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Jaime spent a few minutes showing the DEA agents the boat’s controls on the bridge. “Everything you see here is duplicated inside, so the boat can be operated from either station. When you are ready we’ll go down.”
“Let’s do it,” Nicole said through her teeth, then, despite herself, inhaled sharply when she saw the mangled teak door leading into the boat. Although she struggled to maintain her professional objectivity, this was no longer just another case of drug peddlers offing one another. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined the abject terror the Goodalls must have felt when the door was destroyed by thugs with long, sharp knives. Aloud she muttered, “Oh, I’d really like to get my hands on those sons a bitches.”
Jaime cut a sidelong glance at her, wondering just exactly what she would do if the culprits were left in her tender care. He wouldn’t want to be one of them.
The interior of the boat was in shambles, tossed asunder either by police, the bad guys, or a combination of the two. Wires dangled where electronic instruments had been ripped from their moorings, cabinet drawers and their contents littered the floor. Nicole fingered the wires and raised her eyebrows in question.
“We don’t know who took the radio, GPS and fish finder,” Jaime told her, “but it could have been almost anyone who came on board before the port captain in Guaymas put a guard on the boat.”
Turning towards the aft section of the main saloon, Jerry pointed to a second shattered door hanging from one hinge. “That their last stand?”
“Yes.”
Nicole’s eyes followed the direction of Jerry’s pointing finger, then, after a moment’s hesitation, led the way. From the top of the stairway she heard the flies. Three steps down, the smell of death filled her nose and turned her stomach. The Goodalls were gone, but their blood covered walls, floors and even the ceiling. A foam mattress, or what was left of it, lay across the bed.
Following Nicole’s gaze, Jaime said sadly, “It seems they tried to use their mattress as a shield.”
Jerry spotted what appeared to be a bright orange pistol in a corner. “Flare gun?”
“Yes. Our guess is that Mr. Goodall attempted to shoot a flare at the attackers, but it did not fire. The date on the cartridge shows it expired ten years ago.”
“The Coast Guard would be thrilled,” Nicole commented, willing her voice to nonchalance. “I guess Hot Idea didn’t go through safety inspections down here.”
“They are few, and not in all ports. When our navy boards a foreign vessel they ask for visas, boat documentation, perhaps a life jacket count, maybe even check the f
ire extinguishers, but that is about all. If we were too strict, most American vessels would pass while Mexican vessels would not.”
“And the only protection the Goodalls had was a faulty flare gun,” Nicole said, almost to herself.
“Yes. Unlike your country, private citizens are not allowed to have guns in Mexico. Personally, I think cruisers should be permitted a shotgun on board, as they are so often in remote locations. But it is against our laws. Just possessing a bullet in Mexico will earn you a long stay in our jails. From experience, I know many vessels have hidden weapons compartments. But not Hot Idea. Obeying our law probably cost Mr. and Mrs. Goodall their lives.”
Before returning to the main cabin, Nicole looked into the head. In sharp contrast to the rest of the boat, it was left untouched, spotless. Two toothbrushes hung in a chrome holder, toiletries were neatly aligned in plastic holders along polished mahogany walls, and fluffy white towels embroidered with Captain and First Mate hung on brass towel racks. The homey touches stung her eyes.
Jerry and Jaime left the boat, but Nicole, her anger growing, snapped photos of the mayhem inside. She took a few notes and was preparing to climb down the transom ladder when another police car roared into the yard. While Nicole watched from above, an officious-looking man in an immaculate police uniform stepped out, glared rudely at Jerry, and handed Jaime an even more officious-looking envelope.
When the sergeant roared away into his own lingering dust cloud, Jaime broke an old-fashioned wax seal on the envelope and scanned the contents. He looked up at Nicole and smiled. “Come down and join us, Nikki. You will be happy to learn that we may soon get our hands on your sons of bitches.”
For the first time since they met, Nicole gave Jaime a genuine smile.
Nicole opened a bureau drawer in her hotel room, sighed when she spotted the price tag still dangling from her bathing suit strap, then shrugged and jammed it into her carryall with the rest of her stuff. She gave the room a once-over and stepped out onto her sunny balcony. The bay, marina, and volcanic Tetakawi peaks sparkled in postcard beauty. Pointing to the turquoise pool below, she growled in her best Arnold Schwartzenegger voice, “I’ll be back,” and left to join Jaime and Jerry.
She knocked on Jaime’s door and was ushered in by the comandante himself, resplendent in full dress uniform. She lifted an eyebrow.
“For impressing the peasants,” Jaime joked.
Nicole sniggered at Jaime’s self-deprecating humor. He had, with one well-delivered quip, made fun of both the over-the-top uniform and a country that still had a caste system.
Jerry, too engrossed on the other side of the room to hear Jaime’s joke, looked up when he heard Nicole giggle. That’s more like it, he thought. “Come over here, Nikki. There’s someone you need to meet.”
Nicole turned her attention on Jerry, giving his jeans and gaudy shirt a critical glance not lost on him. “Okay, okay, I’ll go change. But first I’d like you to meet Felipe de la Garza, one of Mexico’s first U.S. trained agents. Felipe, Agent Nicole Kristin.”
De la Garza stood, shook hands with Nicole, and then returned to tapping keys and maneuvering his mouse, while Jerry watched closely. “Nikki, Felipe is logged on to that new closed network on-line information sharing system you and Russ Madden helped set up. Thank goodness someone in our governments—both of them—finally realized we’d better start fighting a united front if we’re gonna do battle with a thirty billion dollar a year drug industry.”
“Up and running? I thought we were still bogged down in bureaucratic folderol.”
“Show her, Felipe,” Jerry said, the excitement in his voice reminding Nicole of a small boy’s.
“Pray do,” Nicole urged, wondering if she and Russ had done the new information sharing data system a disservice by holding back a file or two. Or several hundred. They did not expect the two countries to cooperate so soon, and Nicole was reluctant to just dish out some of the more sensitive files.
Jerry was beaming. “See, it’s working!”
“So I see,” Nicole said. She didn’t sound pleased.
Felipe smiled, not picking up on Nicole’s sarcasm. “I feel very privileged to have this opportunity to serve the best interests of my country. Our countries. And to be included in the first group at Quantico to train for this job.”
Jaime, slightly annoyed with Nicole, said pointedly, “Unfortunately, two of Felipe’s classmates were murdered by the cartels. These young men fully realize we are at war, and they are soldiers on the front line.”
Nicole felt a twinge of guilt. She was one of those DEA agents who took issue with training Mexicans like Felipe. Her very words came back to her. “Are you telling me,” she’d said to Jerry, “that we’re going to bring these guys up here, teach them all our secrets, send them back to Mexico, and expect them to risk their lives for a lousy three grand a year?” In retrospect, she now felt she owed Felipe and his fellow agents an apology. Especially since she'd been training agents just like Felipe for over a year, and learned for herself how sincere they were. And how much danger they faced.
There was a light tap on the door and Juan entered with another of those official envelopes in his hand. Jaime scanned the contents and told them, “We leave in an hour. Jerry, is there anything more you need Felipe to relay to your people before we go?”
“No, looks like we’re ready to roll. Or will be when we get to Arizona.”
“Update me, guys,” Nicole said.
Jerry answered. “As you know, Jaime’s people intercepted a phone conversation between some guy in La Paz, on the Baja, and another in Colombia. Not only was there a mention of Hot Idea, but a big operation on the Arizona border on the nineteenth of November, two days from now. We’re banking on Washington and Mexico City giving us carte blanche for a bust that will show our Congress, and the rest of the world, that both governments are serious about the drug war.”
Jaime waived the envelope. “My president has given me his full confidence in this matter, and his staff is working with the staff of your president. It is just this kind of operation our governments had in mind when they formed the HLCG.”
“Ah, the High Level Contact Group,” Nicole said in wonder. “Never thought it would fly, but I’m glad I was wrong. It will work, won’t it?” she directed at Jaime.
Jaime opened his mouth to defend the system, when Felipe let out a satisfied grunt, punched the printer button and handed Jerry a printout.
“Well shoot, Nikki,” Jerry said, “they didn’t name it the High Level Contact Group for nothing. We’ve got the authority, from very high levels, to cut through all the crap and get to the perps. HLCG’s first big test.”
“Hallelujah! This could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship, boys,” Nicole exclaimed, dancing a little jig.
Jaime watched Nicole’s antics with amazement; he had begun to think she was permanently sullen.
Chapter 27
There are not enough Indians in the world to defeat the Seventh Cavalry—George Armstrong Custer
The late afternoon sun heated the Cessna Skylane’s interior, making it slightly uncomfortable until they reached altitude and the air cooled.
Jaime sat in the copilot’s seat, Jerry and Nicole in the back. The pilot, an American living in San Carlos, flew the plane. The HLCG cut through every scrap of red tape delaying the trip, and they were miraculously cleared for a direct flight into the Sierra Vista, Arizona, airport with no customs or immigration clearance required.
“So,” Nicole asked Jerry above the airplane’s drone, “how far is Sierra Vista from Fort Huachuca?”
“They share a runway. Can’t get much closer than that. Our team should already be in place by the time we arrive. With all this high level involvement, the marines have probably been called in.”
“Cavalry,” the pilot said. “Fort Huachuca is the center for Army Intelligence Operations.”
“Is that an oxymoron?” Nicole quipped.
“Hey, watch it, you’re ta
lking to an ex-army guy here,” Jerry protested.
“Two of us,” the pilot chimed in.
“Gee, sorry guys,” Nicole apologized, not looking very contrite. “So what else has Fort Huachuca got to offer besides being a training center for spies?”
“For one thing, the Aerostat.”
“Oh, yeah, that blimp.”
“Not a blimp, Nikki,” Jerry told her, “a blimp-shaped balloon.”
Tom Reeves chimed in with some statistics, “Aerostat is a long helium balloon over two hundred feet long—at a cost of about a cool million per foot—tied to a very long tether. It can see stuff, like low- flying aircraft and bad guys, for a couple a hundred miles. Hell, it probably has us in its sights right now, and soon you’ll be able to see it. Stands out like a sore toe from a long way. Your people pulled some serious strings so we can fly this route without getting a couple of F-16s on our ass once we cross the border.”
“Or shot down,” Jaime said cheerfully. “We’re flying in what's deemed a major cocaine corridor. Off limits to civilian aircraft. And, thanks to your government, my government is now armed with the weapons required to bring down suspected aircraft. Which, under normal circumstances, would be any unauthorized aircraft in this zone. I am certain my people were briefed in time to prevent such an occurrence.”
“How certain?” Nicole squeaked.
“Ninety percent.”
“So we have a ten percent chance of being blown to smithereens by our own artillery? Zapped by friendly fire?”
Tom Reeves nodded and added, “Not to mention the fact that my insurance company probably wouldn’t pay off because I was in a no-fly zone. But then again, I guess that would be my wife’s problem.”
The men laughed, but Nicole looked at the ground and imagined a surface-to-air-missile honing in on them. “You guys can laugh, you’re all old. I want to live a few more years.”
Jerry elbowed Nicole gently. “Watch it, whippersnapper. Besides, we’re pulling your leg. Or maybe engaging in a little wishful thinking. Worst thing that could happen is to draw one of our own DEA tracker planes on our butts. Right, Jaime?”
Troubled Sea Page 15