“Rabbit, ma’am.”
“Rabbit? Like a Volkswagen?”
“No, ma’am. Bucktoothed, furry critter, ma’am. Wanna see a scorpion, ma’am?”
“Only if you quit calling me ma’am.”
“I was joking about the scorpion, but watch this,” Gray said, moving his mouse and giving it a few clicks. The image zoomed, making Nicole slightly dizzy. She leaned away to focus, but still couldn’t make out the topography and said so.
“Just takes a little getting used to, ma...uh...Nicole. I’ll superimpose something over the screen that'll help make sense out of all of this.”
Nicole watched as a template suddenly appeared on the screen, its black lines outlining an area. In the center of the box was a blinking cursor.
“We use this for the Aerostat dog and pony shows. That blinking dot is us, the lines mark the fort’s boundaries. Wanna peek into the men’s steam room at the gym?”
“Gray, you’d best stick to business if you know what’s good for you,” Russ warned. “We don’t call Nikki the Terminator for nothing.”
Nicole rolled her eyes at him, but Gray bought it and quickly moved his cursor along what he told her was the Mexican-American border, then zeroed in on a location, clicked his mouse, and a longitude and latitude jumped onto the screen. “These coordinates are accurate to within a meter. We relay them to the Border Patrol, and their field units are equipped with GPS receivers to locate the target. We can switch the display to either radar or infrared. Vehicles show up fine on radar, but humans better on infrared.”
“Very impressive. Can we see Douglas and Agua Prieta on this screen?”
“Oh, sure,” Gray told her. “That is, unless very low clouds move in. ‘Course, when the wind comes up, and we have to reel her in, the coyotes—those jerks who smuggle illegals across the border—make a run for it. Rain is a problem for us because of the winds generated by storms. Storms are a problem for the illegals, too. One time a coyote stashed a bunch of folks in a culvert, told ‘em to stay put till dark, and along comes a downpour and two guys died in the flash flood. Trapped like rats against a trash screen. Didn’t stop anyone though. Numbers are way down from a few years back, but we still figure on around two-hundred thousand this year. And that's the ones we apprehend. No tellin' how many get by.”
A wave of unease washed away some of the elation Nicole felt at being part of Black November. So we bust some guys with over a hundred kilos of coke. So what? Next week, or maybe even the next day, more people die, more drugs cross the border, and the cartels make more money. It was downright depressing.
“Here you go, that's Douglas. And Agua Prieta across the iron curtain.”
“Looks like, in this case, it really is iron. Just like the one we have in San Diego. What a shame, huh?” She clucked her tongue. “Oh, well. Gray, zoom in on Comandante Morales’s vehicle and give me the coordinates, please. Then set me up to access Aerostat data on my own monitor.”
“Yes, ma…uh, sure thing, Nikki. They told me to give you guys anything you want.”
Back at her own console, Nicole took a swig of her umpteenth bottled water of the day and tried to shake off an arriere pensee, a shadow of unease, plaguing her. If someone suggested to Agent Nicole Kristin that what she was feeling was “womanly intuition” instead of a professional analysis based on experience, she'd sock them, but privately she had to admit that’s what it got down to. So much for gender equality. She shrugged, stared at her screen and figured out which vehicle Jerry and Jaime were in. With a wicked grin, she mentally launched a surface-to-air missile at them.
“Get ‘em?” Russell asked over her shoulder, startling her.
“Jeez, Russ. What are you? Clairvoyant?”
“Naw, I just know how pissed off you are that the boss and Jaime left you behind.”
“Not.”
“Too.”
“Okay, so I’m a tad miffed, even though I know I best serve this operation as a monitor jock. What's that saying? ‘Words are women, deeds are men’?”
“If I said that you’d clobber me.”
“All too true.”
“I assume that Bronco contains Jerry and Jaime.”
“Yep. And I sincerely hope they get calluses on their asses.”
“Nice talk, Agent Kristin. Very professional,” Russ said with a grin. “The good news is, everything’s all set and it’s still...” he looked at his watch, “five hours until kickoff. Just in case, though, everyone’s in place.”
“Yeah, and I guess in this case a woman’s place is at home in front of her multimillion dollar system?” Nicole grumped.
“I wouldn’t touch that with a telephone pole,” Russ said, and walked to his own console.
Nicole sighed, circled her neck to work out a kink and stretched her legs. Her screen still targeted Jerry and Jaime’s vehicle and she found herself thinking of Jaime. Wishing she were in that car with him. Oh, hell. Oh, dear. Pray tell I’m not really missing him. This is a very bad omen, dear girl. Every man you’ve ever been attracted to turned out to be a rascally rat.”
“Cheese?” Jerry asked, offering Jaime a slice of plastic wrapped Velveeta.
“Thank you,” Jaime said, then inspected the package suspiciously. “Uh, what kind of cheese is this?”
“A gourmet delight to me. Nikki calls it heart sludge.”
“Oh, then I will like it.” Jaime grinned and took a bite. “Good. How long have we been sitting here?”
“Three hours, and it’s still four hours till midnight. You know, this Border Patrol truck looked bigger this morning. And the seats were softer.”
Jaime and Jerry, sitting in a utility vehicle in the Walmart parking lot in Douglas, Arizona, finished off the Velveeta while listening to radio chatter crackling along the border. Jerry’s borrowed INS uniform was uncomfortably tight, so he opened a few buttons and shifted in his seat. Evidently Border Patrol agents don't come in XXL.
In the fading light, he and Jaime saw the lights of Agua Prieta glimmering through a cloud of dust raised by other Border Patrol vehicles as they patrolled the U.S. side and maneuvered into position. By dark, teams on both sides of the border were tensely waiting, ready to spring into action, but the Aerostat picked up no unusual activity save that of the Task Force. And the Task Force was doing its best not to alert every Tomás, Ricardo and Harry along the border that something big was brewing.
Jerry threw a candy wrapper onto the floorboard of the truck and impatiently picked up his phone. He punched a few buttons and waited.
“Hey, Jerry, how’s it hangin’?” Nicole asked with false cheer.
“Lost all the nerve endings in my butt hours ago. What’s the weather bureau’s latest, Nikki?”
“So, so. Some nasty clouds are moving in and it might even rain. The blimp boys tell us if the wind picks up as predicted they’ll have to reel her down.”
“Dammit. Anything else I should know about?”
“We got a message for Jaime from his son, Juan. Something about a shrimp boat.”
“Hold on, I’ll put him on.”
“Hola, Nikki,” Jaime said. “You have a message for me?”
“It’s from Juanito. He says you got a call from the shrimper, whatever that means. He told them to stay on the job, but take no action.”
Jaime hesitated for a moment and then said, “Thank you. If he calls again, tell him he’s doing fine and I will call tomorrow morning. We should have this wrapped up by then, no?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“I miss you. Jerry and I have only each other for company.”
Nicole’s stomach fluttered. “Well, you didn’t have to leave me behind, you know,” she huffed. “But I’m doing just fine here, thank you. Oh, and tell Jerry I’m about to take a big bite of pepperoni pizza. With extra cheese. And the cheese is all hot and gooey. Ciao.”
Jaime hung up the phone and relayed Nicole’s message to Jerry, who grimaced, squirmed in his seat and growled, “That woman has
a definite mean streak.”
Nicole was still enjoying her shot at Jerry several hours later when her hot line buzzed again. She figured he’d had time to come up with an appropriate retort by now.
“Christ almighty, Nicole. Who authorized this?” Jerry yelled.
“And a good evening to you too, fine sir. Or rather,” she checked her watch, “good morning. Who authorized what?” she asked with feigned innocence.
Operation Black November officially began at midnight, and fifteen minutes later, a white car entered the almost deserted Walmart parking lot and screeched to a halt next to Jerry and Jaime’s Border Patrol vehicle. In the car were two FBI agents, a cameraman, and Leslie Stahl. Jerry was poleaxed.
Nicole let him vent for a minute, then warned, “Mind your blood pressure there, Jer. I just heard about the “60 Minutes” thing myself. And to answer your question, the approval to make you and Jaime television stars came from someone just a little lower on the ladder than God. I think it has a nice ring. Operation Black November, starring those totally unknown legends, Jerry “The Fish” Fisher and Jaime “The Latin” Morales. You'll vie with “American's Got Talent” next Sunday night, just in time for the upcoming congressional hearings on funding more anti-cartel programs with Mexico.”
“For God’s sake, the idea here was to be as low key as possible until we proved the HLCG worked. What if we fall on our asses? And do those idiots in Washington think people in Southeast Arizona don’t have television sets? I mean, any ten-year-old could recognize Leslie Stahl. What’s she supposed to be doing here with a cadre of cameramen? Buying toilet paper at Walmart?
“Calm down, boss. It’s a done deal. Hey, think on the bright side; they didn’t ask you to wear makeup.”
Jerry popped two Tums and was about to say more when Nicole cut him off. “Hey, guys, we’ve got bogeys at the Naco border. Gotta go.”
“Mañana.”
“Mañana.”
“Mañana is good enough for us,” Dennis caterwauled, his less than dulcet tones mixing with those of his companion’s, and their combined voices flushing small nocturnal animals from the cover of cactus and mesquite.
“Garth Brooks don’t have to worry about any competition from you, Denny, mi amigo mio,” Freddie slurred.
“What’s the next chorus?” Dennis asked, turning towards his friend’s voice and almost slipping off his burro.
Freddie wailed, “The window she is broken and the rain is coming in. If someone doesn’t fix it, I’ll be soaking to my skin.”
“But if we wait a day or two the rain may go away, and we don’t need a window on such a sunny day.”
“Mañana. Mañana...” They howled the chorus as if baying at the cloud-shrouded moon, then stopped to share a hit from a large bottle of Sauza Commemorotivo Tequila. As they passed the jug, distant coyote howls echoed across the desert, as if in response. This sent the two men into spasms of laughter. “What time is it?” Freddie gasped, wiping tears of glee from his cheeks and squinting at the moon.
“Hell if I know. I don’t even know what day it is. Shit, we been drunk since last Thursday.”
The two friends, after a long weekend in Sonora fishing and drinking, were returning to the States via Douglas when they took a wrong turn onto a dirt road and rolled their Jeep. They tried, unsuccessfully, to push the heavy vehicle back onto its tires, gave up, and thanked their lucky stars the tequila didn’t break. After walking in circles for an hour, they spotted two burros in a rickety corral and Freddie, a farm-grown New Mexican, rounded up the friendly beasts and fitted them with rope halters.
The ever-so-gay caballeros were just breaking into another song when they were blinded by enough candlepower to light the desert for miles, and automatic weapon-brandishing soldiers in desert fatigues surrounded them.
Freddie stared dumbly at the guns and wheedled, “Shit, man, don’t shoot. We was gonna give the jackasses back.”
Fifteen miles from the great burro bust, two men and a woman shrouded in dark clothing neared the border. They had traveled north for ten days on foot, by bus, and cadged rides in the beds of decrepit pickups. Even though they were extremely penurious, their meager stash of pesos dwindled until they could no longer afford food at the last border town, nor a place to stay. They had money, though. A cashier’s check in dollars they'd cash at a convenience store—and they knew which one—in Sierra Vista.
A kind priest gave them tortillas and beans the day before, and offered to pay their bus fares back to southern Mexico, but they refused. They were too near their goal to give up now.
They had a plan, and a promise of work in a place called Maria-lan. They were to take a bus from Sierra Vista to a city named Boltimora where they were promised employment paying thirty dollars a day! For only ten hours a day of easy work: Isabel sewing and her husband packing boxes.
Isabel, so fatigued that her legs were numb, barely kept pace with her husband, Miguel, and her brother, Jorge. Unknown to her traveling companions, she was experiencing stomach pains. “Jorge,” she called softly, gritting her teeth against a sharp cramp, “Are we near?”
“I think so. Stay close behind me. I found a coyote trail. We will be across by dawn.” Jorge heard the strain in his sister's voice and wished he had water for her. How does she stay on her feet? he asked himself. But he knew the answer: sheer determination.
Miguel was very worried about his wife, as well. They had eaten nothing since the day before, and their water ran out twelve hours ago. He stopped and patted her shoulder, but she gently pushed him forward. Thank the saints it is not summer, he thought. Dios mio, please let there be water in the river. But not too much.
Isabel grunted as a spasm hit her. Please God, let us find the river soon.
Jorge knew they were somewhere near the San Pedro River, for he had carefully plotted their route on the ragged 1995 AAA road map in his pocket. He planned on following the riverbed until they crossed the border, and then continuing north along the banks until they were even with Sierra Vista. Only then could they brave the road. He prayed all night that the clouds gathering over the mountains were not dumping rain, water that might rush down arroyos into the river. He knew about flash floods.
Isabel longed for the comfort of her home in Chiapas, the family she’d left there, and her mother’s soft touch. Mama protested long and loud against this trip, even calling in the priest to plead her case.
Now, as she plodded painfully after Jorge, Isabel could almost hear her mother’s plaintive cries. “Isabel, this is loco,” her mama wailed when she heard of their plan. “You’ll never make it. And if you do, the norteamericanos will arrest you. They are animals who hate small brown people. I have heard this. And there are Mexicans...Mexicans! who do worse. You might die. Jesús, Maria y Jose, please make this child listen to her mother.”
“Mama,” Isabel said, “I am not a child. Jorge knows the way so we won’t have to pay a coyote, and Miguel will take care of me. And we will be very careful, I promise. We must go.”
“Let Jorge and Miguel go, hija. When they have jobs they can send for you.”
“No, Mama, Miguel is my husband and I will follow him.”
Isabel’s eyes stung as she thought of her mother’s sobs, then Jorge’s voice broke the desert silence.
“Isabel. Miguel. Dios mio, we have found it. We have found Rio San Pedro,” he whispered.
The three young people slid down a steep embankment and landed in a puddle of water. Quenching their thirst, then filling the plastic bottles dangling from the men’s belts, their spirits soared. The river was a major landmark, a milestone in their trek to the land of promise. They took a minute to pray, thanking God for their good fortune.
As they followed the riverbed, Miguel’s confidence rose. They would indeed make it to a new life, a life free from the hardships of the past few years. When the Mexican economy took a downward turn and the peso devaluated against the dollar, the small factories in his town suffered losses, and jobs were l
ost. Miguel’s family, as well as Isabel’s and Jorge’s, were forced to sell their homes and combine their meager assets. They built a complex of scrap wood and sheet metal on an unimproved lot owned by Miguel’s father. Fifteen members of three families lived there, waiting out the Mexican recession.
When Jorge and Miguel, the only two family members who still had jobs, were laid off from the shoe factory, the situation turned from uncomfortable to desperate. Isabel, Miguel and Jorge decided on going to the east coast of the United States, where Isabel’s uncle lived.
Boltimora, Tio Francisco wrote in his letters, was a wonderful place and his job, removing asbestos from old buildings, easy. For such easy work he was paid five dollars an hour. And sometimes they allowed him to work twelve hours a day! In one day a man earned more than he would for a week’s work in Mexico. It was the uncle who arranged for their jobs at a shirt factory in Baltimora, and sent them the cashier’s check for five hundred dollars. All they had to do was get to Sierra Vista, cash the check, get on a bus to Marialand, and start new lives.
The trio did not plan falling victim of either coyotes or the Border Patrol. Tio Francisco, a man wise to norteamericano ways, supplied the travelers with a stylish backpacks chock full of things needed to evade capture. At dawn, they would ditch their telltale plastic water bottles and dark Mexican clothes. From the carefully guarded packs they'd don black spandex shorts, Fila tee shirts, headbands, sunglasses, and tennis shoes. In the backpacks were brightly colored, insulated water bottles, and a pair of well-used binoculars to sling around their necks. They planned to walk boldly along the San Pedro, then the highway, and right into the heart of Sierra Vista, disguised as bird watchers. Jorge spent a great deal of time teaching his fellow travelers how to hold their heads high, look like they belonged.
Another hour passed in silence, the trio carefully picking their way along the steep bank, when, from the very desert sand, it seemed, armed people in uniforms materialized. Even though the soldiers told them to stay calm, that they would not be hurt, it was all too much for Isabel, who screamed and fell to the desert floor.
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