The Surge - 03 (20 page)

They were called flocks.

Long ago, the cartels had learned that the American, and later the Texas border couldn’t be penetrated without developing advanced, creative tactics.

Through the late 1990’s, the battle had been fought with technology. Night vision, thermal imagers, long-range cameras, and even ground-scanning radar had been implemented by both sides of the “War on Drugs.”

When American military capabilities had been redirected to the conflict, even the wealthiest of criminal organizations couldn’t compete. Multi-million dollar drones, Blackhawk helicopters, and computer-networked ground sensors were beyond the reach of even the cartel’s deep pockets.

Realizing they couldn’t win with silicon and software, the first decade of the 21
st
century saw the smugglers’ emphasis change to a strategy involving maneuver, distraction, and sacrifice.

Tunnels, submarines, and even hot air balloons began to replace powerboats, private planes, and secret trails through the desert. If shipments couldn’t go through, they would go around. If the Yankees intercepted airplanes and boats, the cartels would build submarines or dig their way under the border.

During this transition, the drug lords learned a valuable lesson about their foe to the north. The Americans operated on quotas and statistics. Their fiscal budgets were renewed based on the tonnage of illegal drugs seized or the number of migrant workers detained at the border. Promotions and advancement within the federal ranks were largely based on how much was captured.

The percentage confiscated from the overall illegal trade in substances and people didn’t matter.

The U.S. Customs and Border Patrol was always touting the big stings, quoting the “street value,” and bragging about how they had taken such a vast sum of money out of the cartel’s pockets.

No one seemed to care that the profit margin on a pound of marijuana was over 400%, the markup on crystal meth almost 20 times its cost to manufacture.

“We seized a major shipment of cocaine today with a street value of $1,000,000,” the government agencies would boast. The fact that the cartel had paid less than $50,000 for such a load was made to seem insignificant.

Even more misleading were the reports of the massive weights involved. “The U.S. Border Patrol today announced that it had intercepted over 400 tons of marijuana this quarter, up slightly from last year’s record of 393 tons.”

What no one mentioned was that the amounts being shipped had doubled.

The best criminal minds in Mexico soon learned that as long as the federal juggernaut could look good during its Congressional reports, the vigor and enthusiasm of the agencies working against them would wane. So they sacrificed small percentages of product in order to feed the beast protecting the northern border.

If a batch of crack cocaine was ruined at the factory, it would be offered in sacrifice. Low-quality marijuana and non-usable meth were deliberately sent through border checkpoints to be discovered. Often the mules were enemies or troublemakers who wouldn’t be missed as they spent time in an American prison.

All of this had led to the development of the flocks.

It was U.S. immigration policy to return captured immigrants to Mexico if it were their first offense. It had been a simple matter for the cartels to offer a discount off of the typical $3,000 coyote fee to anyone who was willing to join a flock.

Scouts on the Mexican side would spot increased Border Patrol activity and stage a flock for crossing. The group of 10-15 first-time offenders would meander through the desert or across the Rio Grande, intentionally showing themselves to the agents waiting on the other side.

Helicopters and massive amounts of manpower would be dispatched to catch the crossers, the green and white trucks vectoring in from all directions to apprehend the handful of illegals.

Often a second, smaller flock would cross shortly after, just in case a few of the U.S. agents hadn’t been dispatched to capture the larger group.

When they were sure all of the Border Patrol personnel were occupied running down the flocks, the real crossing would take place. They almost always made it through.

As Vincent sat in the passenger seat of a pickup and nibbled on his fast food burger, he listened as the first flock was being loaded into the rafts, preparing to cross the Rio Grande just 15 miles west of Del Rio, Texas.

The Spanish play-by-play was being broadcast over the latest digital encoded radios, using a model similar to that employed by the Texas Troopers. The communications were deemed secure.

His driver was a locally known guide who specialized in feral hog hunts along this section of the river valley. There was even a credit card receipt from Vincent’s fake identity, $150 in payment for the excursion – just in case the authorities got nosey.

On the off chance they were stopped by any republic officials, Vincent’s story would pass field-level scrutiny, and he would simply try again a few days later.

The men managing the flock eventually reported their landing on the northern bank. Their next update indicated that several Texas law enforcement vehicles were moving to intercept the 12 illegals. There was even a patrol boat now shining its spotlight along the bank, trying to help the agents on the shore with the difficult job of rounding up the scattering migrants. Four of his sheep were special – long distance runners recruited from a high school’s track team.

The second flock was launched soon afterward, about 500 yards upstream from the first. There were only six sheep in this group, all of them aboard an inflatable raft and paddling with their hands.

Vincent and his guide listened carefully to the radio, the Texan’s reaction to the second group critical to the crime lord’s safe journey home.

“The first flock is keeping them busy,” announced the cartel scout on the southern bank of the great river. That fact was verified by the distant thumping of a helicopter, its spotlight clearly visible as it moved away to the north.

“Agreed,” echoed the second watcher who was a well-paid, legal resident of the Lone Star Republic. “Should we go, sir?”

“Yes,” Vincent nodded. “I am ready.”

The pickup was moving then, rolling down Highway 90. After a few miles, it made a sharp turn and headed down a farm lane toward the wooded bank of the river.

Ten minutes later, Vincent and his guide were hopping out of the truck and hustling for the bank. Three blinks of a flashlight guided them the final 100 feet.

Two shadows stepped from the brush, both pointing flashlights at the drug lord and his guide. “Stop! Freeze! Texas Troopers! On the ground! Get on the ground!”

Vincent knew if he was captured now, there would be no chance of escape. Despite his best efforts, his face was now well known to the authorities. After the debacle in San Antonio, his image had been plastered all over the nightly newscasts from El Paso to Brownsville.

He was so close to achieving his goals. There was no way he was going to be taken alive.

In a flash, he drew an automatic pistol from the small of his back and fired a burst of 9mm lead.

One of El General’s rounds struck the nearest officer in the meat of his upper arm, ripping through the limb’s flesh and entering the chest cavity via his armpit. It was a million dollar shot, penetrating less than a quarter inch above the cop’s body armor.

The second trooper snapped two quick shots at Vincent’s guide, the man twisting and falling to the ground in a tangled heap.

Again, the drug boss fired a spread of eight rounds, two of which slammed into the remaining officer’s upper thighs with devastating effect.

Vincent was running again, his bad left knee screaming with pain as he made the final sprint for the river.

Unlike the makeshift, dangerous rafts employed to transport the average illegal, Vincent’s waiting craft was equipped with a silent, electric trolling motor, life jackets, and even a GPS locator.

A few minutes later, he was being helped up the Mexican side of the riverbank and into a waiting SUV.

“Welcome home, sir,” Ghost announced from the front seat. “You’ve done well.” 

Zach arrived at San Antonio General, a small batch of flowers sitting on the passenger seat. The bouquet had been Cheyenne’s idea.

He guided the pickup around the circular drive, following the hospital’s signs and eventually stopping in an area reserved for “Discharged Patient Transportation.”

Sam’s face soon appeared as the automatic door rolled open, the lady ranger being pushed by an orderly wearing sky-blue scrubs. Her smile broadened as the sunlight hit her face.

Zach opened the passenger door and waited while Sam was helped from the chair and handed a single crutch. “Afternoon, Zach,” she greeted, obviously thrilled to be released.

The senior ranger moved to help her climb into the truck, but she shooed him away. “I can do this,” she declared. “Get my stuff, would you, please?”

Knowing better than to argue, Zach turned and accepted a small suitcase from the discharge attendant, which he promptly threw into the backseat. “Where are all your flowers?” he asked, watching his partner struggle with the ascent into the cab.

“I donated them to a service that delivers them to senior citizens’ homes,” she announced. “They were beautiful and all, but I have enough memories of my time here at Guantanamo Bay Hospital.”

After verifying she was secure in the passenger seat and as comfortable as possible, Zach settled behind the wheel. “Where to?”

The question seemed to take her by surprise. “Hmmm … I was so enthralled with my freedom that I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose back to my apartment … unless you’ve got something critical going on with the case?”

There was a hint of hopefulness in her question, almost as if she was praying that the republic desperately needed her services. Zach hated to bear bad news, “I wish, but no, there have been no new developments in the last few days. Every lead has gone cold.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll drive you home and help you get settled,” he offered softly.

“Thanks. You’re sweet.”

As they left the Alamo City, Sam’s thoughts returned to the investigation. “So, in summary, we lost a bunch of Marines, are missing a batch of deadly biotoxins, have a couple of dead scientists as well as a good cop. The republic is taking one hell of a financial and political hit with the borders being closed, and the cartels now hold a weapon of mass destruction. Maybe I should have stayed in the hospital.”

Zach realized she left one thing off her list, “How’s the leg?”

“I can’t put any weight on it. The docs wanted me to stay and let Nurse Attila keep me company for a few more days. But it was getting to the point where I was going to shoot someone, so they let me out on bad behavior and time served.”

Zach chuckled but then guilt fueled his emotions. “Are you sure it’s okay for you to go home? I mean … taking a bullet isn’t like a head cold or a strained muscle.”

“They told me to stay off of it for another week or so, which is fine,” the female ranger explained, waving off his concern. “But I don’t want to talk about my leg. I’ve done nothing but talk, talk, talk about my fucking bad luck and bullet wound for days. The boredom was going to kill me long before any blood clot or infection, so I want to change the subject. What happened to that guy you coldcocked up in Abilene, by the way?”

“He’s still in a coma.”

“And the lady they found in the lab?”

Zach shook his head, “She was shoved into the closet where she enjoyed listening to the doctor’s tortured screams for mercy, and then after about 30 minutes, his death. She didn’t see any faces and couldn’t help with any sort of description. That, and the fact that she had been trapped in the dark for almost three days doesn’t make for a coherent witness. All in all, she’s been about as much help as the guy I waylaid at the golf course. Nada.”

Sam gave her partner
that
look. “Remind me not to have a beer with you when you’re in a bad mood. I’ve heard you can get a little carried away when your mug is empty.”

“I didn’t mean to cave his skull in,” Zach replied in all innocence.

“Uh-huh. Any identification verified off any of the dead bodies you’ve left along the trail?”