Jaime gave him a Mexican shrug, said, “Drone,” and Jerry’s face fell.
He and Nicole shared a look. Drones now flew the border, supposedly only as eyes in the sky, but were being used all over the world in attack mode.
“Personally, I hope we unleash the drones, blow the bastards out of the sky,” Reeves said. “We gotta stop this narco crap. My wife and I live most of the year in San Carlos, so we have selfish reasons for stomping out the cartels: our real estate values. If Sonora becomes a drug war zone, no one in their right mind will buy property in San Carlos.”
Nicole settled back, looking out the window. “Look at all those ranches...and cattle,” she said.
Jaime craned his neck and put his forehead on the glass. “Zactly. The pride of Sonora, Nikki, Sonoran beef. You ate it for dinner last night.”
“And it was delectable. To tell you the truth, Jaime, when you insisted I order steak in Mexico I expected to lose a tooth or go to bed famished. A picture of a freckled faced Longhorn bovine as stringy as he was ill-natured came to mind.”
“I am glad you found our beef to your liking. Many Americans buy it because it is lower in fat than your corn-fed herds. Our ranchers are having a hard time of it lately because of drought, though. We hope next year’s monsoon will be normal.”
“Monsoon? Like in India?”
“I do not know about India, but ours starts around the beginning of July. South winds bring moisture from the Gulf of Mexico to Sonora and Arizona.”
Tom Reeves said, “It’s great. The wife and I like to sit out in the afternoons and watch the lightning show. We also can get rain then, which plays havoc with that Aerostat. They gotta reel it in. You better pray for dry weather for your operation.”
Nicole’s eyebrows arched as she shot a look at Jerry. “Amen,” Jerry said, but he, like Nicole, was a little surprised Reeves seemed to know why they were headed to Arizona.
Reeves told them, “I was posted at Fort Huachuca before I retired, then moved down to San Carlos to live most of the year. We still have a condo in Sierra Vista where we spend the summers. Cooler there.”
“In Arizona? I thought all the Zonies moved to San Diego for the summer,” Nicole told him, using the Southern California nickname for Arizonans who invaded their beaches to escape the heat.
“Sierra Vista’s around forty-seven hundred feet, twenty degrees cooler than Phoenix in the summer, and at night the temps drop into the sixties. Then, of course, there’s that monsoon.”
“Sounds nice if you like the desert. Which I do,” Nicole said. “But you still haven’t told us how you got involved in our, uh, flight.”
“Let’s just say I got a call from on high,” Reeves said mysteriously, pointing upward and smiling.
No one pursued his meaning and the cockpit fell silent for the rest of the flight. It was fully dark when they landed at the Fort Huachuca/Sierra Vista airport and taxied to a well-lit hanger.
“Welcome back, General Reeves,” boomed a man in uniform who met the Cessna when it rolled to a stop.
Jerry and Nicole exchanged looks. General?
Reeves saw the look. “Retired. But you know, when the country calls....”
They were escorted to a huge room obviously designated for the Task Force’s war room. People bustled about, phones rang, and monitors glowed at computer stations. In the middle of it all stood Russell Madden, their DEA technician from San Diego.
Spotting Nicole and Jerry, Russell rushed forward. “Welcome to organized chaos. Looks like you really stirred something up. I haven’t seen this much brass since I hung out in San Francisco fern bars. We’ve got a briefing set for ten minutes. Who’s gonna go first?”
“Comandante Morales,” Jerry said, nodding at Jaime. “His tip, his operation.”
“Great. Let’s get set up. Comandante, do you need any props? Maps, whatever?”
Jaime left with Russell to prepare for the briefing. Jerry and Nicole scanned the room, recognizing several people. “Jesus,” Jerry commented, “there’s enough acronyms in here to start a new language.”
An hour later, Jaime stood behind the podium, looking through his notes while Russell adjusted his mic. The screech of folding chairs being hastily dragged from all over the room finally stopped, and at least a hundred people, in all sorts of attire, settled down to hear Jaime’s briefing. Uniforms of both Mexican and American officialdom were interspersed with black-suited types that looked as though they should be standing behind some head of state, reflective sunglasses shading their eyes. Most of the technicians wore blue jeans and tee shirts.
Exuding good looks, authority, and confidence, Jaime introduced himself to the assembled Task Force.
Watching from the front row, Nicole thought, It is true. Men in uniform are irresistible. Then she found herself absently wondering why Jaime never mentioned his wife. Typical Latino, she scoffed, thinking of all the heartbreak her Cuban grandfather caused his wife, daughter, and especially his granddaughter. Nicole was crushed when she learned of her granddad’s philandering, and vowed, even in her teens, to never let anything like that happen to her. She’d give Latino men a wide berth. Then Jaime smiled at her, and Nicole chastised herself. He’s been nothing but polite and professional, girl. Get a grip.
“As you all know by now,” Jaime said, “our governments are cooperating on a precedent-setting scale as a result of the High-Level Contact Group, the HLCG. Please listen carefully while I name everyone, for there will be a test at the end.” Laughter broke the tension in the air.
“He sure knows how to grab his audience,” Nicole whispered. Jerry nodded and glanced at Nicole, realizing it was the first nice thing she'd said about Jaime.
Jaime waited for the laughter to subside. “But, before I list the organizations involved, I am informed this operation has a code name: Black November. We Mexicans also read el señor Clancy.”
This time the laughter was louder.
“I shall explain how this operation came about. We intercepted and recorded a telephone conversation between La Paz, Mexico, and Colombia that, on the surface, seemed to be centered around a fishing trip until, in the middle of a sentence, our technician heard mention of a boat named Hot Idea. That got our attention, because the owners of that vessel were recently murdered in what turns out to be a drug-related incident. But it was these words which are responsible for us being in this room tonight: Nineteen November, Agua P, one hundred twenty K.
“Agua P, or Agua Prieta—black or dark water in English—is, as you all know, a town about forty-five miles from here on the border opposite Douglas, Arizona. The date mentioned in the intercept is simple enough. November nineteen. And we do not believe these men were discussing a hundred and twenty kilos of fish.”
Another round of soft laughter.
“Now, brace yourselves while I list the agencies involved. As I do, will the people from each of those agencies stand? That way if we have any leftovers still seated when I finish, we can shoot them.”
Laughter erupted, then he continued.
“I have already mentioned the HLCG, and since both the Presidents of the United States and Mexico are otherwise occupied, they are represented by...” Jaime consulted the list of names and agencies in front of him, “The INCD: the Mexican National Institute for Combating Drugs; CENDRO: Mexico’s Center for Drug Control Planning; FPJ: my country’s Federal Judicial Police; PGR: Office of the Mexican Attorney General. Also, the Mexican Army, the combined forces of the American military and Homeland Security, including DEA, FBI, CIA, INS, United States Customs, and the Border Patrol. And, of course, we cannot forget the,” he consulted a note, “Arizona Joint Counter-Narcotics Task Force.” He drew a dramatized breath and said ominously, "Anyone left seated?"
His audience laughed again and everyone sat down. “Now, only one hundred and twenty kilos of cocaine with a street value of maybe twenty million dollars might seem hardly enough to merit the attention of so many agencies, but if Black November proves successful
, it will be a shot across the bow of the drug trade.” Jaime stopped, grinned and whispered into the mic, “Not to mention a popularity boost for both of our big bosses.”
The audience was amused and entranced. Nicole wondered if Jaime had any political ambitions. He’d be a natural.
“So, with the hopeful eyes of two national leaders focused on Southeast Arizona and Northern Mexico, let us go to work. And two days from now, on Sunday, November the nineteenth, let’s show the world how two great nations go out and get the bad guys.”
“My calculator shows...one hundred kilos of coke would be...bigger than a bread basket? I have operator malfunction,” Nicole griped, throwing down her pocket calculator.
“Oh, it could easily fit in the trunk of any large car, say fifteen cubic feet or so,” Jerry said casually.
Nicole looked impressed, but Jerry laughed and showed her a computer model the techies had printed out for him.
“Cheater. So,” Nicole said, “that amount will be easy to hide. Who knows, maybe they’re planning to run a hundred and twenty ‘mules’ across the border, each one with a kilo in his backpack. Some of those illegals have been found with up to a hundred pounds on their backs. I guess that’s why they call them mules.”
Jaime had joined them and heard Nicole. He sadly nodded his head. “They do that, you know. The Coyotes—vermin, smugglers of humans—take some poor souls from the slums of Mexico and spirit them across the border. Then half the time the poor illegals turn over drugs to their contact on this side and then are left to die in the desert. It is a national disaster, and shame.”
“On both sides, Jaime,” Jerry told him. “Well, maybe this is the beginning of the end for that part of the problem. As for illegal immigration, do you have an answer?”
“Not zactly. But I cannot blame the impoverished Mexicans,” Jaime said. “They get letters and money from relatives who crossed over and are earning five or six dollars an hour. Even three dollars an hour sounds like a fortune when you consider the minimum wage in Mexico is around seven dollars, not an hour, but a day. Even our police are paid so poorly it is no wonder they turn to crime themselves. If my son’s wife were not a doctor, they would have to live with me forever. He could not afford a house on his salary. As it is, they will have their own home soon.”
Nicole filed away the information. Again, no mention of a señora Jaime Morales, and Jaime said “live with me,” not us.
“You know, though, I think part of the problem on both sides of the border is the breakdown of the old family system, when several generations lived under the same roof,” Jerry said. “If our families in the United States were stronger units, I don’t think we'd have a national drug habit that demands such a huge supply. We’re trying to get a grip on something that’s out of control.”
Nicole listened to the men talk, and bobbed her head in agreement. “We had three generations living together when I was a girl, so I was raised like Bill Cosby likes to say he was; any grownup could whop me. But when I was a senior in high school everything changed. My grandfather...well, when he died the family sort of fell apart. My parents divorced, Mother moved out and went to work. My little brother was sort of left on his own and overdosed at thirteen. Turns out he got the stuff in the schoolyard. The guy who sold it to him was only sixteen himself, and never spent a day in jail because he was a minor. But they did get the guy who sold it to the sixteen-year-old. He’s doing twenty, but I wish they had hanged the bastard.”
If Jaime was surprised by her bitter, hardliner reaction, he didn’t show it. He was getting used to her style. When Nicole was just being conversational, she had an almost prim, old-fashioned manner, but when it came to work and drugs, she was as hard as they come.
“I’m sure you do. There are times when I wish we had the death penalty in Mexico. I sense, Nikki, that you do not approve of the ways in my country, but we still live under the Napoleonic Code. One is guilty until proven innocent. I am sure that one day this will change. The Little Emperor is long gone, so should be his archaic laws.”
“Just how does that work?” Jerry asked.
“Let us say a man is driving his car down the road and he hits and kills a donkey. The owner of the car is unhurt, but his car is wrecked. He accuses the farmer who owns the donkey for the loss of his car. The farmer, on the other hand, blames the driver for the loss of his donkey. Under Mexican law, they are both considered guilty until one is proven otherwise. Unless they can work it out between them. Once, in my youth, I had just such a case. I threw both men in a cell with the dead donkey. It was a very warm day and the men reached an agreement by the next morning.”
Jerry and Nicole laughed heartily. Then Nicole said, “In the States the Humane Society would get in on the act, claiming the donkey had a right to better company. Oh, yeah, and PETA and the SPCA would have a field day.”
“And,” Jerry added, “a lawyer would crawl out from under a rock and represent the donkey’s family, suing for millions for loss of the wage earner.”
Jaime, enjoying himself, said, “Also, do not forget your ACLU. Everyone’s rights will have been trod upon because violence was done. And, of course, all parties had underprivileged backgrounds.”
“Civil rights don’t warrant a gold star in Mexico, that’s for sure. When we train your new agents, we have to deprogram them, teach them how to get a confession that will stick in court without beating the crap out of the suspect.” Nicole said this without rancor, surprising herself. In real life, she worried about personal freedoms, but didn’t feel like ruining the moment of levity.
“Yes, Nikki. Many say we Mexicans lack...finesse,” he said with a sly grin, “but I am not so sure your country has not finessed itself into protecting the rights of the guilty.”
“You won’t get any argument here,” Jerry said glumly. Their humorous interlude slightly tarnished, the trio split up to do work on their parts to ensure the success of Operation Black November.
Nicole, who was having some serious reservations about the entire operation, went to her work center to engage in some research. Four hours later, frowning, she pushed her chair back and tore her eyes from the screen. Over her career she developed her own database that tracked and analyzed drug tips, busts, and results. She’d detected a definite pattern in the way these things came about, and everything about Black November was screaming TILT. She was filling her coffee mug when Russell Madden joined her.
“Uh, none of my business Nikki, but maybe you’d like to trade in that java for some water. The techies here tell me we’ve only got nine percent humidity today and the normal human requires eight ounces of water an hour to cope with it. Otherwise your brain turns to dust and your skin turns all alligatory. That’s a medical term.”
“Why, thank you, Doctor Russ,” Nicole said, trying to sound friendly, but failing.
Russell grinned. “The first thing to go when you’re dehydrated is your normally sunny personality.”
Nicole put down the coffee cup and grabbed a small bottle of spring water from a tub jammed with ice and soft drinks. “Sorry. It’s more than water deprivation that’s making me edgy. Is it just me, or is everything going just a little too smoothly?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t really know. Maybe it was the tip? Too easy?” she said.
“Or maybe the source?”
Nicole bristled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we both know it wouldn’t be the first time some Mexican cop has led the DEA down the garden path while the real party was happening back at the gazebo.”
“You mean Jaime?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.”
“And so have you,” Russell said, and walked away to answer his phone.
Nicole whispered, “Zactly.”
Chapter 28
The shore has perils unknown to the deep.—George Iles
“Gimme the AT HOME section, will ya?” Hetta held out her hand
.
Jenks gave her a look over his glasses and put his book aside. “Do you miss newspapers?”
“Nope. You miss TV? Sunday football?”
“Nope. Golf.”
“You can play on the course between here and Loreto.”
“Too expensive. Besides, I don’t have any clubs. That’s the first treat I’ll give myself when we get back and become gainfully employed.”
“Back.” Hetta said it like a curse.
“Yes, Hetta. Back. We can’t last much longer. We agreed when the money ran out, we’d return to the real world, and that day is fast approaching. Unless we want to become those barnacles you talk so kindly about. We can live, but this boat needs some serious maintenance. Very expensive maintenance.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“We have to.”
Hetta stood up and left the main saloon, throwing back over her shoulder, “No. We. Don’t.”
She stomped to the back of the boat, jumped into Jenkzy, pumped the bulb on the gas line, pulled furiously on the starter cord, and left Jenks standing on deck.
“Hey, where are you going?” he yelled, but Hetta either didn't hear him over the motor noise, or chose not to answer.
Hetta motored toward the main harbor while Jenks, stunned by her uncharacteristic fit of temper, watched until she turned the corner behind a seawall. He shrugged. She’ll cool off soon. I might as well catch some bass as a peace offering.
He baited two lines with bits of leftover bacon, dropped them sixty feet to the sandy bottom of the Waiting Room, and set the reel. If they were biting, he’d have enough sand bass by noon for dinner.
While he fished, he admonished himself for the way he approached Hetta with the taboo subject of their return to the States. By the time she gets back, I'll have everything on paper, with a timeline for when we can return to Mexico and cruise again. That'll appeal to her engineer's logic. Hetta, not partial to surprises, liked tangible plans. She'll balk at first, but then her practical side'll kick in.
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