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08:00 Monday, June 10th, 1991
Building 102
Ft Huachuca, AZ
SFC Florea briefed the twenty or so Border Patrol agents for about forty minutes on deployment and transportation, timelines and schedules. He gave the floor to SSG Brooks, who would explain about communications and alerts for sensor trigger events.
Florea crossed the hall, to where Munoz, Silverman, and others discussed things with Captain Russell Franks of the 502nd Military Police Co.
The NCOs of Delta Company, led by 1SG Davis, had concerns, and Davis brought them to Captain Gammill. He chatted with the S2, and together they visited the Provost Marshal. That worthy called Captain Franks in Ft. Hood. A back-channel communication had also happened. One SSgt Florea at Ft. Hood, younger brother to the SFC Florea at Ft. Huachuca, asked one of Franks' MPs to put in a word with Captain Franks.
Given both requests, Captain Franks agreed to visit Huachuca with six MPs. He'd replace them with a Reserve platoon coming in for their two weeks of active duty, and the rest, as they say, was history.
Franks instantly understood and supported Munoz' plan of action, now that the Army had agreed to continue after full disclosure from the Border Patrol. That plan was to drum up interest in the border and roll up those interested in watching the activity, hoping to find the persons of (presumably) criminal intent who set them to watch and report. Franks agreed the sensor line was almost secondary to the mission, though he appreciated foreknowledge of when someone crossed the border with Agents and soldiers in the field. He could easily see that once the sensor positions would lose any value when found.
From a police point of view, he appreciated the effort and planning. He suggested the soldiers stage at a different area each sortie so as to protract the period of uncertainty in the position of sensors for those who would watch.
They'd conduct operations at evening and morning, to avoid the worst of the sun's heat.
From a soldier's point of view, he was resigned to the bureaucratic chickenshit. Franks heard Sparks' conjecture from the company First Sergeant, and from a few of the platoon sergeants. He agreed they needed more coverage than the Border Patrol could provide them. There would need to be someone who could legally detain persons any group of soldiers came across, if needed, and no BPA were present. The two-way radios would help, but were not the solution in and of themselves.
Franks rested on his hands over a map spread out over the table, a grease pencil in his mouth. Munoz pointed out a spot on the map, and used his left hand as a pair of dividers, showing the distance between points.
SFC Florea shook his head at the obvious similarity of interest between the men. Each was passionate about his work, and both were fully engaged in this exercise. Florea was convinced Captain Franks would say he was having fun, compared to his day job. It went a long way towards explaining his enthusiastic cooperation.
He caught Sandy Sparks' eye. She sat in the corner, where she quietly watched the action, soaking in details. He smiled at her, hoping to draw a comment out of her. She smiled back, shaking her head, then indicated Captain Franks with a raised eyebrow.
Florea looked at the man again, he and Munoz now divided roads into sections for surveillance. When he returned to Sandy, she silently mouthed the words "Thank you". SFC Florea grinned broadly. Sandy had somehow figured out he had a brother at Ft Hood. Florea left the room, chuckling, in search of coffee.
19:30 Monday, June 10th, 1991
31° 31' 27"N 111° 29' 34.5"W (Compartidero Flats, AZ)
Ft Huachuca, AZ
Osvaldo Batista de Moreno stood beside the dirt road, watching the pickup arrive. This spot was a junction of two roads, but the eastern arm of the 'tee' showed little use.
The ingress pattern was often through the wide, flat sandy area to the west of the Sierra Verde tanks (a tank is a mountainous upthrust of rock) in the Tohono O'Odham Indian Reservation, then cross to the east south of Sells, AZ, a risky proposition. The safer route was just to the East of Highway 286 through the Compartidero Flats with the Sierra Verde Tanks nearby. There were often Border Patrol checkpoints along SR 286, and along SR 86 to the north. Thus, it was best for the immigrant to walk most of the way to Tucson and then be picked up at a prearranged point and smuggled through Tucson's back roads towards Phoenix. Once in Phoenix, the immigrant's chances of both survival and eluding deportation were immensely better. Reaching Tucson was an important first step on this route.
In the last two weeks, life became, if not better, at least more interesting. Osvaldo was happy for the change in scenery. Lordsburg was flat, with brown mountains in the distance. Here in Arizona, at this 'X-on-a-map', they were in flats, with mountains very close by.
With a soft crunch of rock under tires, the camouflaged pickup stopped. The blonde soldier, Specialist Sparks, Osvaldo remembered, debarked from the passenger side and approached him. She was so beautiful, Osvaldo felt it like a punch to his heart. He had to hide his feelings, though. It would be unprofessional to be caught making eyes at her, and Osvaldo had long since thrown himself into a stiff, professional mode in order to survive the sheer boredom of life in Lordsburg.
Now that he was out of Lordsburg, even if only temporarily, and in an exciting situation, he used his professionalism like a suit of armor the old Spanish Conquistadors wore in the new world. In his quiet moments, he acknowledged bitterly that the armor was hollow. The armor acted on Osvaldo's behalf without much interaction with his true self, certainly without guidance from the man within.
Sparks was beautiful, and she was out of Osvaldo's reach. Then there was the matter of the redheaded boy behind the wheel of the truck. In the five minutes he'd seen both of them together earlier that day, Osvaldo was convinced they were lovers. That was just another bitter spike through the armor. It's just not fair!
"We're to watch the southern end of the road with you."
Her voice was a smooth alto. I wonder how she'd sound in a church choir? With the thought came an image, an indistinct woman, Osvaldo's future wife, singing in a Sunday choir. I have got to stop torturing myself.
"Yes, Specialist. We're watching for anyone who might be watching the activity, or trying to move around the eastern end of the activity. We're to aid any group requesting help. You two are my communications and spare eyes. I am your law officer."
Sandy nodded, already scanning the desert. "Call me Sandy," she offered. "We'll be working together for a while."
Osvaldo nodded. This is how it will be, he knew. "All right, Sandy, let's introduce me to your partner, and then see about hiding these vehicles."
06:10 Tuesday, June 11th, 1991
Gila Recovery & Salvage Co
W. Avra Valley Road, Marana, AZ
Ruben woke to the sound of the phone jangling in his ear. He'd fallen asleep in the office chair last night, the fan blowing directly on him. He was disgusted with himself, having drunk tequila until he passed out in the chair.
There's no other way to describe it, he thought, as he stared at the phone. He'd sat there, in the middle of the damned junkyard, too afraid of the sharp metal hazards in the near-dark to at least navigate his way to his car, and so you just fucking kept drinking. He was still drunk, he knew, even if he didn't feel it. What he did feel was the urgent need to relieve himself, so he stumbled outside into the bright sunlight and wet the fender of an old collapsed truck.
The fucking phone is still ringing. He looked around. There was no one at the junkyard yet. His watch said it was just past six ... he had to think hard for a moment, to remember if he were in Pacific or Mountain time. Then he remembered which timezone it was, and then he remembered why he was at the junkyard. A second later, he grabbed the phone, driving the corner of the desk into his thigh painfully in his newfound haste.
"Habla," he panted.
One minute later, he scribbled down a note. "Estéis seguro?" Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he hung up the phone.
He looked at his watch again. Six thirty was too early. Joachin wouldn't be reachable until nine. Ruben pulled an old piece of paper from his wallet, and found the number he looked for.
He dialed, the old-fashioned rotary dial causing him a moment's confusion. He spoke in English to the person on the other end. "Benny? It's me. I think it's time we had the kids come visit. Why don't you bring Martin and meet me in Marana? We can climb the mountains and look for caves again." He listened for a second, and then said, "It's a date, then. I'll see you tomorrow night."
Finally, something was happening.
21:15 Tuesday, June 11th, 1991
Compartidero Flats, AZ
Ben drove slowly, to keep the dust down. He left the working teams a few miles to the east, but there was no sense in raising dust and announcing his position. He made the run back to Huachuca, a three-hour proposition, driving up to Tucson and back down to Huachuca, then back again.
Along the way, he stopped up at Arivaca, ten or so radio miles away, but twenty miles by road. Sergeant Brooks set up a field telemetry station there, hooked into the public phone network. Brooks' team seemed pleased with the links, saying they'd received telemetry from six stations to date, logging a new station coming online about once every three hours.
In the truck were extra tools, volt-ohmmeters, batteries, and antennas. The drive was a self-appointed task, since he'd been bored silly "sitting on the X" with Osvaldo. Ben was of two minds about Osvaldo. He quickly determined Osvaldo was from someplace else, New York City, and was of Puerto-Rican descent. Osvaldo was intelligent, and had seen the exact moment Ben realized he was different. He made it easy for Ben, quoting something Ben had heard before: "You may be a spic, but you ain't our kind of spic".
The wry humor and honest acceptance of his situation made Ben warm to the man. But his stiffness around Sandy told Ben Osvaldo was infatuated with his girlfriend. Ben gauged that Osvaldo could keep it under wraps, and so was willing to leave the two of them alone together, even though he could remain at his duty post and watch them both. By leaving, Ben showed Sandy his trust, a conversation his sister Lenore and he had just the previous afternoon.
The four teams currently working had emplaced a line almost two miles long along the southern edge of the road, a thousand or so yards to the south of it. Ben looked across Highway 286, where the teams would work later this week, and saw only more flat desert.
Something about the drive back from Huachuca, down SR 286, tickled at the back of his mind. Ben had the feeling he'd missed something.
At the end of their shift, Sandy drove while Ben dozed in the seat. They passed an old ratty Dodge PowerWagon pickup with a home-built wooden cap over the bed by the side of the road. As they flashed past, Sandy saw the truck sat on a scissors jack, the drivers' front wheel missing. There was no one near the truck, and so she was surprised when Ben suddenly commanded, "Turn around!"
Shrugging, she did so. Ben seemed animated, but she wasn't sure why. "That's it! I was sure I'd seen that thing before," he said excitedly. "I've seen this truck all up and down the road today and yesterday, Sandy. More than I think I should have if this guy lived out here."
"What do you think we should do about it?" Sandy asked. "It's Oh-Dark-Thirty, Ben, Osvaldo's up the road ahead of us somewhere, and we're not in two-way range of anyone we know."
Ben nodded. "I'll tell the Border Patrol tomorrow. Lemme get this plate number."
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