Hostile Borders (21 page)

Only the last car in the small train was different from the others. That ore car held what looked like a large metal-reinforced footlocker or steamer trunk. The lid wasn't locked or even latched, but when Reaper tried to open it with one hand, it wouldn't move.

Surprised at the weight of the lid, Reaper needed to use both hands to lift it up. Looking under the lid, Reaper could see that the trunk was empty. What had made the lid so heavy was that it, and the rest of the trunk, was lined with lead sheet. There was a thick layer of gray lead metal on every interior surface of the
container. Lowering the lid, Reaper wondered just what the hell such a heavy box would be for.

Turning from the train, Reaper saw there was another elevator shaft behind it. Only this time, he was standing at the bottom of the shaft and looking up at the floor of the elevator cage far above him. Like the last elevator shaft, there was a ladder going up its side. Except that, instead of being made of iron steps, it was built of wood boards nailed across upright beams—and all of the wood looked old, dry, and brittle.

There wasn't much choice of routes if Reaper wanted to see what was up above. With extreme care, he started climbing the wooden ladder. It looked like there was plenty of space up above to get past the floor of the elevator. The only trouble was climbing the weak old ladder up that high in order to be sure.

Several of the ladder's steps creaked and gave a bit as Reaper put his weight on them. Each time it happened, he froze in place, hanging on to the ladder with one hand and on the pistol grip of his MP5 with the other. No face appeared up above to check out the noise, and Reaper again took hold of the ladder and continued his climb. Finally, he reached the uppermost tunnel of the mine.

This area was as well lit as the lower tunnel had been. Crawling up past the elevator floor, Reaper stayed in a low crouch as he moved through the passage. This was a much larger and more heavily used tunnel than the one far below that he had come in through. Up ahead a few dozen yards the passage curved and he could see the light coming in what was
probably the entrance to the mine. As he watched, the light suddenly dimmed.

Whether it was the shadow of a passing cloud or an incoming truck, Reaper neither knew nor cared. He immediately moved to take cover in a small side tunnel a short distance away. Ducking into the side passage, he crouched down behind a large pile of crates that filled the center of the area.

The last thing he wanted was to get in a firefight with some random guard. It wasn't that Reaper worried about himself. His faith in his skills with the weapons at hand prevented that. If it came to a silent kill of a single person, Reaper knew he could use the Silver Trident blade and take the person out. But then he would have to deal with the body. Carrying it back to that death pit back in the cavern was possible, but not very practical. And there would still be the problem of a missing guard to point out that something was wrong at the mine.

These were the thoughts that went through Reaper's mind as he crouched in the dark. With his MP5 up and aimed at the mouth of the side passage, Reaper waited for possible discovery. Outside of the beating of his own heart, he didn't hear a sound. There were no shouts of discovery, no thud and crunch of running feet. After several very long minutes had passed, Reaper could see that the light in the mine had brightened and nothing else was happening.

Relaxing for a second, Reaper took a deep breath and blew it out. That had been a sharp moment of stress and he needed to make his heart slow down. It
was a good thing he kept in shape through constant exercise, the walk and climbs of this recon had really started taking some of his energy away.

As he looked about, Reaper started to wonder about all of the boxes and crates that were stacked up in the side passage. There was something disturbingly familiar about a number of them. Taking his light sheath and light from his belt, he pressed down on the back of the sheath to turn the light on. What he saw startled him more than when he had first seen the cavern.

Box after box of ammunition, weapons, and explosives were stacked up in the tunnel. Right in front of his face, the familiar-looking shapes turned out to be wire-bound wooden packing boxes. Each box had big block letters printed on it in black ink: 20
CHARGE, DEMOLITION, M
118. That was forty pounds of C-4 plastic explosive in half-pound sheets.

There were crates of hand grenades, both American M33 fragmentation grenades as well as Soviet RGD-5 grenades. The contents of the tunnel were a mixture of American and ex-Soviet ordnance. The labels on some of the boxes were printed in English, the others in Cyrillic, and still more a mixture of the two languages.

The markings on a stack of boxes said that the contents were AKMS-47 rifles, ten of them to a case along with magazines and accessories. There were thousands of rounds of ammunition in sealed metal cans. Cases of PG-7v rockets for the RPG-7v launchers, with several boxes of the launchers as well. There was even a case of RPG-18 antitank weapons, the Russian version of the American M72 LAW, light antitank weapon, se
ries. Deeper in the tunnel on the far end of the pile, was a stack of long green-painted metal boxes, each over four feet long and about a foot square.

The sight of those long boxes raised the hair on the back of Reaper's neck. He had seen them before and knew what a threat they were. Each case held an Igla-1 9K310 missile launcher, the NATO code name was SAM-16 Gimlet, a newer Russian shoulder-fired heat-seeking antiaircraft missile. Recognizing the markings after seeing similar boxes in Bosnia, Reaper knew that these weapons were a very serious threat to U.S. airlines and even low-flying military aircraft.

There was no way immediately at hand for Reaper to destroy the missile launchers. Even with the cases full of explosives, he had no reasonable time-delay that would allow him to get to some kind of safety before everything blew. In spite of what might be done by SEALs in the movies, Reaper wasn't about to try to blow up the missiles, along with several hundred pounds of high explosives, with a four-second delay hand grenade from one of the boxes. All he would manage to do with one would be to kill himself, maybe blow the missiles, and certainly warn anyone around that they had been discovered.

No, it was time to withdraw and tell what he had seen—and to do it quickly.

The morning after Humzan's crossing, Daumudi got up, washed, did his morning prayers, and then immediately started making a series of phone calls. Most of the communications he made over his cell phone, but there were several he conducted on the land-line phone in the main house of the hacienda.

When asked if there was anything he needed, Daumudi answered the question with rude, stony silence. Feeling in a magnanimous mood, Masque didn't press the question with the terrorist leader. For his part, Santiago thought that the odd mood swings of his boss were becoming more and more pronounced. The man swung between calm and rage on what seemed like almost an hourly basis now.

By early afternoon, a very strange vehicle showed up at the gate to the hacienda. When called up by the gate guard over his radio, Santiago's first impulse was to have the thing turned away. The vehicle was a huge
tanker truck, old, dented, and rusty in a variety of places. The big tank on the back of the truck said
AGUA
on both sides in chipped black paint. It was a water tanker truck.

No one had told Santiago to expect a water truck at the hacienda. The arrival didn't make sense. The water storage cisterns at the hacienda were full and the deep drilled well was producing large amounts of pure, clean water. So the truck was an unnecessary delivery, something that automatically set off all of the alarms in Santiago's head and fully raised his suspicions.

Before Santiago could issue the orders to send the truck away, Daumudi came out into the central courtyard, all excited about the arrival. He was followed by an equally smiling Masque.

“Quickly,” Masque called out, “open the gate and let him in, the truck is expected.”

Surprises were something Santiago hated passionately. Gritting his teeth for a moment, Santiago smiled at Masque before he lifted the radio to his mouth and issued the orders.

The big steel gates were unlocked and swung open. The big tanker rolled into the central courtyard of the hacienda. It was a hard-used British Foden 8×4 tanker truck. Originally, it had been designed to carry 22,500 liters of fuel in its long tank. The tanker was over ten meters long and almost filled the center courtyard. There wasn't room enough for it to be able to turn around. It would have to be backed up to go out the gate. That was something Santiago wanted to see as soon as possible.

The passenger-side door of the cab opened and an older man stepped out and down to the ground. He stretched slowly and then his frowning face smiled slightly as he saw Daumudi approaching him. The old man had white hair and Middle-Eastern features. He was slight of build and could have been any older college professor of history or antiquities.

The man who stepped out from behind the steering wheel of the truck was another story entirely. He was massively built and carried himself like a bull gorilla checking out his territory. The driver wore his black hair cut close to the skull, like a frizzy cap. And he had a huge hooked nose that dominated his face. His chest was so wide that his muscular arms couldn't hang down straight to his sides. Instead, they stuck out from his body at a slight angle. If there was a definite form for an old Turkish wrestler and leg-breaker, this guy was it.

The big man looked around the hacienda with poorly concealed arrogance. The older man was warmly greeted by Daumudi, who embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. Masque merely stood nearby smiling while the other men spoke to each other rapidly in Arabic. Catching Santiago's eye, the big man glowered at him with an obvious challenge in his look.

Masque was being introduced to the newcomer. By Daumudi's smile, Santiago knew that something between them all was working out to the terrorist's satisfaction. That wasn't necessarily a good thing in Santiago's opinion. Finally, Santiago was called over
from where he was standing with his arms crossed.

“I would like you both to meet my security chief and most trusted lieutenant, Garcia Santiago,” Masque said. “Santiago, this is Dr. Emil Ammad and his bodyguard Abu Hydar.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Santiago said as he reached out his hand. Shaking hands with Dr. Ammad was less than pleasant. The man had a soft, moist grip that reminded Santiago of the skin of a particularly unpleasant dead fish. Shaking hands with Hydar was everything he expected from a big, dumb muscleman who appeared to think only with his fists.

When Hydar took Santiago's offered hand, he immediately tried to nonchalantly crush it in his grip. Tensing his hand with his own not inconsiderable strength, Santiago kept smiling and simply waited. Unhappy and frowning at the loss of reaction, Hydar finally dropped the other's hand.

The last thing that Santiago wanted to do was hold his hand while still in front of the hulking bodyguard. He turned to Masque and ignored the throbbing.

“What shall we do with the tanker truck?” Santiago asked. “It has to be moved, it is completely blocking the garage.”

“Just place it against one of the outer walls then,” Masque said. “And place a guard, no, make that two guards, to watch it twenty-four hours a day until further notice. That should be satisfactory, gentlemen?”

Astonished but not letting his surprise show, Santiago watched as Masque was asking the terrorist's and the old man's permission to move the truck! When the
two men gruffly nodded, Santiago called over one of his men.

“No,” Dr. Ammad said sharply, “Hydar will move it. Just show him where it has to go and make sure the guards are posted.”

Things were becoming more and more unusual at the hacienda as far as Santiago was concerned. The doctor and his bodyguard were now arguing in rapid-fire Arabic. Ignoring the two men, Santiago called to Rodriguez who was standing nearby.

“Rodriguez,” Santiago said, “this vehicle will be stored close to the hacienda. See to it that men are assigned to keep it under a twenty-four-hour guard, two men to a shift.”

“Yes, sir,” Rodriguez said as he snapped to attention. Turning smartly, he began barking orders to the men standing nearby.

Normally the mercenaries were much more relaxed in their military mannerisms. The experienced sergeant could see that his leader was not happy with the present situation. Some sharp military snap could help ease things or impress the strangers.

If the Arabs were impressed, they didn't show it at all. For himself, Masque loved the military aspects of his mercenaries. It made him feel like a true leader of men in the greatest traditions of Mexico.

Dr. Ammad and Hydar had finished their discussion and Hydar appeared to have lost. With the argument over, the sullen bodyguard climbed back into the truck and fired up the big diesel engine.

Even moving the truck could not go smoothly, it
seemed. Though he couldn't swear to it, Santiago suspected that the bodyguard intentionally tried to hit him with the truck as he was backing it up. This was ridiculous. It was like two grade school children trying to fight in a playground. Santiago simply wasn't going to play anymore.

Inside the hacienda's main house, Santiago walked in to see Masque, Daumudi, and Dr. Ammad sitting in the sunken living room. The doctor was talking, apparently about the house or something like it.

“Yes, yes,” Dr. Ammad said. “It is a nice home. Not like what Saddam put us up in during the good days back home. But it is nice enough. Better than where I've been.”

“That villa was the best home that Nueva Casas Grandes could offer,” Daumudi said. “It was a decadent example of Western living and corruption. Made for American tourists.”

“The only reason it was chosen was because of the deep pool it had,” Dr. Ammad said. “It was for storage of the material and nothing else.”

Hydar chose that moment to walk into the house. He shouldered past Santiago to go up to Dr. Ammad and report. The short burst of Arabic was answered with just a nod.

“Everything seems satisfactory,” Dr. Ammad said. “At least the security meets with Hydar's approval.”

“The best news I've heard all day,” Santiago said as he walked into the room. “We shall strive to continue to earn his approval. So, Doctor, what materials would you need to store in a pool? A tanker full of fish perhaps?”

“He should know,” Masque said. “He is in charge of my security. Santiago does his job best if he's aware of the risk. I've found him to be completely trustworthy and would put my life in his hands. In fact, I have done just that a number of times.”

Now Santiago's curiosity was really piqued. The use of the term
risk
immediately activated his personal survival instincts and set them to a high level.

“Very well,” Dr. Ammad said, “if you feel it is necessary for the safety of the material. What we have in the truck are four shielded containers of radioactive isotopes, particularly powerful ones. There are three containers of Cesium-137 and one of Cobalt-60. The Cesium-137 is packaged in small Lucite rods while the Cobalt-60 is in stainless-steel pencils about forty-five centimeters long and eight millimeters in diameter. There are several thousand curies of radioactive material there. It may be more simple for you to think of it as more than thirty kilograms of radioactive powder.”

“It isn't the kind of thing that a nuclear bomb can be made of,” Masque said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “At least not what the rest of the world considers a nuclear weapon.”

“No, that isn't what the material is intended for,” Dr. Ammad said.

“It will be used to make a series of radiological bombs,” Daumudi said. “What the Western press calls a dirty bomb.”

“Yes,” Masque said. “It is all very amusing. The Americans, indeed the world, seem to be absolutely
terrified of the idea of a dirty bomb. Even the suspicion of such a thing being in a subway or in a skyscraper can cause panic. There was even a television show about such a device. American Public Television made a program where they showed the effects of a dirty bomb in the Washington, D.C., subway system.

“The people were screaming when they learned of such a thing being detonated. And the device in the show was only a firecracker. Literally, a firecracker with a pinch of radioactive powder in it. And there are kilos of it here!”

“But what can such a device do?” Santiago said. His voice was not giving him away. Though he appeared calm on the outside, on the inside, his mind was racing over the possibilities—and none of them were good. He needed to stall for time in which to think.

“There is little in the way of practical data to work from,” Dr. Ammad said. “We tested several types of devices in Iraq for use against the Iranians. Technically they were successful, but none of the bombs satisfied President Hussein. The isotopes we have came from Iraq and other sources prior to the illegal invasion of Iraq by American forces.”

“And they invaded Afghanistan as well,” Daumudi said. “Another offense in the eyes of Allah, All Praise be upon his Name.”

“
Allah akbar,
” Hydar grunted.

“There is some hard data from an accidental isotope spill in South America,” Dr. Ammad continued. “In 1987, scavengers in Brazil stole a radiation source that contained Cesium-137. They were breaking into an old
medical clinic and didn't know what they had. When they broke open the container of the source, they split up about twenty grams of material among several people. The results were that fourteen people received overexposures to radiation and 249 were contaminated. Four died from the radiation and more than 110,000 people have ended up requiring regular monitoring for the rest of their lives. Cleaning up the contamination filled 125,000 drums and 1,4760 boxes. Eighty-five houses had to be destroyed.”

“And that was twenty grams!” Masque said almost giggling. “Only twenty!”

“But why the water?” Santiago said. “Why a tanker truck?”

“The water acts as a moderator for the radiation,” Dr. Ammad said. “It helps shield it from American spy satellites. It was brought up by boat to the coastal city of Guaymas in the Gulf of California. There we placed it in the water truck for transport to Nueva Casas Grandes. There it stayed in the bottom of a swimming pool until I received the call from Daumudi early this morning,” he nodded in the terrorist's direction. “The same truck was used to bring it here.

“The boxes are shielded, of course. But the additional water moderator makes it even safer to move the material. The Americans have detectors all along their borders and at every border crossing, port facility, and airport. I have been assured that you have a secure route of getting it into the U.S. From there, Daumudi and I can use the munitions you have received for us to completely disrupt the American elections. The entire
world will see what can be done in spite of all of the Americans' efforts.”

“I assure you, Doctor,” Masque said. “We have a most secure and positive route to get you into the United States. We have changed the timetable a bit to help ensure your security and the safety of the shipment.

“We will be crossing during the day. That will allow us to use the business trucks that have proven very capable of moving our drug shipments without detection. They blend in perfectly with the normal traffic throughout the area. I will personally lead you across the border myself. Santiago will assign his very best men to accompany me.”

That was not going to be the best thing the men had ever heard, Santiago thought. The assumption that Masque would just order them around was something they had lived with, he was paying very well—which was always of primary concern to a mercenary. Protecting their paymaster was something they would accept. Working with these terrorists was another thing entirely.

“I'm afraid that Hydar will allow very few armed men to be with both me and the shipment,” Dr. Ammad said. “He is very concerned with my safety and the success of our mission.”

“That will not be a problem,” Masque said. “Only Santiago himself and his trusted sergeant as driver will take you to the crossing. I would be honored if you would allow me to personally take the means of the Americans' destruction to the crossing point.”