Hostile Borders (19 page)

“No reason you should have,” Reaper said. “It was closed down years before either of us were born. It used to supply optical-grade feldspar crystals to the
U.S. war effort during World War II. They made lenses for bombsights out of the crystals, so the place was considered of strategic importance.

“There's a lot of information about the place in the stack here. Old maps of the layout of the tunnels and everything. By the way, your printer is low on ink.”

“There's more in the office closet.”

“No,” Reaper said with a grin, “not anymore there isn't.”

“So,” Hausmann said as he shuffled through the papers, “what are your people in Washington going to do about all of this?”

“Nothing much they can do,” Reaper said. “At least not immediately. There's that little problem of Mexico being a sovereign country. We can't just send troops in, that would cause a diplomatic incident that no one in D.C. is willing to accept right now. And by the time the Mexican and U.S. authorities could agree on any course of action, Daumudi would be long gone.

“Even increasing the law-enforcement presence on our side of the border could warn off Daumudi and whoever he's working with. If he gets scared off, we could lose him until it was too late and he pulled off whatever operation he has in mind. If he took off, he would just set up his operation in another location.”

“So what in the hell are they going to do about him?” Hausmann said.

“Not them,” Reaper said, “me. I've already called people in to help, both with equipment and manpower. It has been strongly suggested by Homeland Security that I try to find out just what Daumudi's mission is,
capture him if I can, and kill him if I can't grab him up. Anything happens to me or my people, and the government had no idea about what was happening, never heard of us. We're just private citizens acting on our own volition.”

“Not just you,” Hausmann said, “or the people you have coming in. You can count me in too. These bastards took a shot at me and killed a friend of mine as well. I owe them big-time.”

“I kinda figured you'd feel that way,” Reaper said.

“So what can I do right now?” Hausmann said.

“Not much, to tell you the truth,” Reaper said. “The most important thing you can do is maintain a communications watch here at the ranch. I've got people coming in who'll use the number here to get in touch with us about their final arrival time. There's also probably going to be more intelligence coming in over the computer and you can download it as it comes in. And I want you to get Manors back in with us when you can. You can tell him as much as you feel you have to. I'll make sure things are square with his higher-ups.”

“I don't think that's going to matter a hell of a lot with him,” Hausmann said. “He never did give a hoot or a holler about what the boss thought of him, as long as he could do his job. But what are you going to do?”

“Me?” Reaper said. “I'm going to explore an old mine shaft.”

With Hausmann maintaining a communications watch on the phone and computer at the Dogbone Ranch, Reaper headed back to the Blue Star mine to conduct a more in-depth reconnaissance than they had done the night before. Heading in to do such a dangerous mission by himself wasn't exactly his choice. It wasn't bravado that sent the ex-SEAL to the mine, Reaper didn't have anything to prove to anyone, not after a career in the Teams.

The situation was simple enough. Time was in short supply, he had people coming in to conduct an op and a high-value target that could leave the area at any moment. Someone had to see just what was inside that mine, and he was the most qualified person on hand to do it.

During a career in the Navy SEAL Teams, the first thing an operator learns is the value of teamwork. Everyone works to the betterment of the group. That
didn't mean a maximum single effort wasn't asked of an individual from time to time. Reaper knew that rule well, and it was what led him to be driving Hausmann's pickup truck back to the area of the Blue Star mine.

The fact that Reaper didn't have all of his tactical gear with him in Arizona had at least been partly dealt with by Hausmann. Digging around in Cowboy's own equipment, Reaper had been able to gear up properly for the reconnaissance he was facing.

The khaki-colored 5.11 tactical pants and shirt would blend in with the surrounding area well enough, so Reaper stuck with them. He added a new accessory to the tactical pants that 5.11 had sent him some weeks earlier. There was a pocket on the inside of each pant leg that accepted a pad to protect the knee. The seven-millimeter-thick neoprene pads that 5.11 had sent him slipped into the knee pockets and would protect those joints from the rocks and sharp corners he could expect to encounter in a mine.

Reaper was still using the 5.11 tactical vest to carry his spare ammunition and other equipment. His Emerson CQB-7 knife was still in his right front hip pocket, but Reaper had borrowed a sterile-model Gerber Silver Trident knife from Hausmann.

The sheath to the big fixed-blade knife was hanging behind Reaper's right hip. The Blackhawk airborne deluxe knife sheath that the knife had come in was a good one. There was a big pocket on the front of the black nylon sheath that held Reaper's Victorinox SwissTool firmly under a velcro flap. Reaper knew that he was going to have to go back through the barbed
wire fence they had seen the other night and wanted to have his folding pliers easily accessible.

Since the inside of the mine would be dark no matter what time of day it was, Reaper had taken his SureFire 9Z flashlight and put it in a SpecOps deluxe tactical light sheath that fit on his belt. The light sheath had a velcro flap that held the light in place. The top of the flap was flexible enough to be pressed in and activate the light inside it. The bright white beam from the flashlight would shine through a grommeted hole in the bottom of the sheath that was lined with a blue filter. Only a faint beam of blue light would leave the sheath, more than enough to see by to dark-acclimated eyes, but too dim to be seen by anyone looking from a distance.

Since the old SEAL rule of thumb for any critical piece of gear was “two is one, one is none,” Reaper carried a spare tactical light in a pocket of his vest. Four spare lithium batteries were also in the vest. In a dark mine, a dependable light source would be worth a man's life.

By the looks of the satellite photos and maps of the area, Reaper might have to move underground for several miles to go from the Blue Star mine to the Crystal mine in Mexico. To get up and down in the mine's tunnels and shafts, he had brought a Blackhawk tactical rope bag that Hausmann used when he climbed around the Arizona mountains. The black nylon bag held the 165-foot length of olive drab New England Maxim climbing rope Reaper was carrying. The
⁷
?16-inch-thick nylon rope was still new and more than strong enough
for any practical need that Reaper would have for it.

In the outside pocket of the rope bag, Reaper had put the CMC Rescue eight-link and some carabiners he would need to rappel with if necessary. Around his waist, he had already secured the CMC Rescue tactical rappelling harness.

Inside the hidden holster of his vest, Reaper had his M1911A1 pistol. For a primary weapon, he had accepted the loan from Hausmann of his registered, transferable MP5A3 submachine gun. Fitted with a Gemtech Raptor suppressor, the weapon was quiet, reasonably compact, and not something Reaper could legally borrow from Hausmann. Legal questions were the least of either man's worries right now and Reaper was glad to have the suppressed capability of the MP5A3 available to him for the recon. Four spare thirty-round magazines filled the long pockets of his vest with a single magazine locked into place in the receiver of the submachine gun.

With all of his gear and weapons, Reaper was not going to be able to pass himself off as a lost hiker if he was spotted during his recon. For the drive down to the mine area, he carried the bulk of the gear inside Hausmann's SpecOps T.H.E. pack. At least while he was in the pickup, he wouldn't stand out at all from the local traffic.

One thing he had added to the inside compartment of the pack was a Camelbak hydration bag full of water. The hose that let him drink from the hundred-ounce water bag slipped through a hole made for it on the top of the pack and was secured to the upper-left
shoulder strap. Until he entered the mine itself, Reaper would be under the desert sun, not a place to be found without water available.

Traffic was very light in the area and Reaper had no trouble finding the stream they had followed the night before. Moving the Chevy pickup along the edge of the streambed, Reaper parked it in a group of trees and bushes that concealed it. In short order, he had the Prowler unloaded and was heading up toward the fence line.

The cutting jaws on his SwissTool folding pliers easily cut through the barbed-wire fence surrounding the reptile sanctuary. It would not have been a problem for Reaper to find the same section of fence that they had cut through the night before, but following the same line of infiltration on a sneak-and-peek twice in a row was just asking for trouble.

Not one to take chances when he didn't have to, Reaper took the Prowler through the new hole in the fence and secured the cut ends of the barbed wire behind him. The ground ahead was scattered with brush and rocks, but didn't look to be any problem for the tough little Prowler. The deep-treaded tires and heavy-duty suspension went across the hard-packed gravel and sand without difficulty. Reaper traveled slow and easy in order not to raise up a dust trail behind him.

It was early afternoon with broad daylight under a bright blue sky. The perforated metal covering the roll cage of the Prowler offered little in the way of shade as Reaper drove carefully along the side of the ridge line. The hot sun was probably also what was keeping the
snakes that were supposed to be all over the sanctuary back under cover. Reaper didn't see any of the poisonous reptiles as he drove along, and he didn't mind at all. He'd had his fill of rattlesnakes the night before. Never seeing one again would be just fine with him.

Approaching one of several large clusters of creosote bushes, Reaper decided that this was about as close as he could bring the Prowler to the mine entrance without detection. The vehicle ran quietly, but there was no reason to push his luck at that moment, he might need all of it later. The rest of his approach would be done on foot. Hiding the rugged little vehicle from casual view, Reaper slung his pack on his back and secured his submachine gun to the shackle of his Chalker sling. Patting his hands around his body, Reaper did a quick touch-check on all of his equipment.

The mouth of the Blue Star mine was only a short quarter-mile hike away on the other side of the ridge. The terrain he was crossing was rough to walk, but not so much that it slowed him down at all. Reaper was glad of the tough cloth the 5.11 tactical pants were made of. No matter how carefully he moved, the brush and cactus seemed to reach out for him with their thorns and spines. He had earlier turned down the sleeves of his shirt to help protect his arms from the nasty plant life. The Kevlar and leather Hatch SOG-L Operator gloves he had over his hands kept the bulk of the thorns out of his skin. In spite of the extra warmth of the gloves and long sleeves, he was glad he had them on as he crouched down low to approach the crest of the ridge.

The hot sun beat down on the black DSC/Cobra logo baseball cap Reaper had picked up back at Diamondback Tactical. He took frequent sips of water from the drinking tube of his water bag. Getting dehydrated out in the open desert was easy and could be as lethal as a bullet. Reaper was not going to make the mistake of not taking in enough water.

Crawling over the top of the ridge, Reaper started his final approach to the mine. Raising his head next to some brush, he scanned the area around him as well as the mouth of the mine only a few hundred feet away. There was no visible activity at all. Even the truck that had been there the night before was nowhere in sight.

The time had come to get up close to the mine. With his MP5 in the ready position, the GemTech Raptor suppressor secured in place over the muzzle, Reaper slipped up to the wooden shedlike structure that surrounded the actual entrance to the mine.

Standing so that his back was almost against the gray, weathered boards, Reaper held still and listened. Even in the bright daylight, your ears could warn you about things well before your eyes ever saw them. His SEAL training and experience had taught Reaper that rule well. So he stopped and just listened.

There was no other noise in the immediate area except for the sound of his own breathing. In spite of the loudness of his own breath in his ears, Reaper knew that sound couldn't be heard more than a foot away from him. There was the rustling of a light breeze blowing across the desert and nothing else. Even the
sounds of traffic on the main road was muted by distance.

After a full minute had passed, Reaper had still heard nothing out of the ordinary. Moving along the wooden wall, but not touching it, Reaper slipped past the piles of rubble and scrap from the mine. Unidentifiable bits of abandoned machinery, piles of dried-out old timbers, and a twisting, coiling, mass of rusted cable was all around Reaper as he covered the last ten feet between himself and the opening to the mine. When he looked around the corner of the shack, a wide steel gate, chained and padlocked shut, was the first thing he saw.

There hadn't been a gate visible the night before. Not even a sign of one. But here it was, blocking his way, and there was nothing he could do about it. Whoever had moved the truck had probably closed the gate behind them.

There wasn't space enough to go around the gate and into the mine. Even climbing over it couldn't be done, the gate extended all the way up to the low ceiling of the shack. The gate wasn't across the mouth of the mine itself, only the front of the shack was closed off. That was something Reaper could work with.

Moving back along the outside wall of the shack, Reaper found a low door that had been padlocked shut. This door was locked, but the lock was old and rusted. There wasn't any way he was going to open that lock with the tools he had at hand, but the hasp the lock was secured to, that was another matter.

Kneeling down, Reaper took his SwissTool out of
the pocket of the knife sheath. The Victorinox engineers who had designed the tool had put a lot of thought into what was included with the folding tool along with the pliers. There were screwdrivers, cutters, knife blades, a file, hacksaw, and a thick, blunt prybar tip. Unfolding the prybar tip and locking it into place, Reaper slipped the chamfered edge of the tool back behind the lock hasp.

When the nails began to pull out of the old wood, they screeched and groaned. A squirt of water from his Camelbak drinking tube, and the water wetted down the wood enough to eliminate much of the noise. Folding the SwissTool and putting it away, Reaper took out his broad-bladed Gerber Silver Trident knife. The thick, strong blade went behind the lock hasp and levered the whole mechanism out of the way. Now, Reaper used the tip of the knife to pry open the edge of the three-foot-square door.

The dry wood cracked and splintered under his onslaught, but the door opened for the first time in decades. The way into the Blue Star mine was now open for Reaper's exploration. He slipped the knife back into its sheath and snapped the thumb break strap to secure it in place. Crawling through the low door, Reaper made his way into the mine.

The mouth of the Blue Star faced southwest, so a good deal of afternoon light came streaming in through the barred gate. Kneeling in the sunlight, Reaper picked up a handful of the crushed rocks and gravel that made up the floor of the mine. Holding the handful up to his eyes, he could plainly see the glinting of
smashed blue azurite crystals in the rubble. Dropping the grit and brushing his hand on his thigh, Reaper knew that this was indeed the mine that the ambushers had come from.

The sunlight brightly lit the front portion of the mine, and grew gradually darker as Reaper went farther down the main tunnel. The tunnel was fairly wide at this part, enough so that carts and horses or mules could have passed each other and not crowded men on either side. As the tunnel turned to follow the original ore vein, the light faded quickly.

As Reaper turned the corner of the tunnel, he came across the two John Deere Trail Gator utility vehicles. The small six-wheeled transports were immediately familiar to him. The U.S. Army had been using a modification of the Gator, called the M-Gator, since late 1999. He had seen footage of the M-Gator in use during Operation Anaconda in Afghanistan.

Even in the dim light, Reaper could see that these were most likely the two vehicles whose tracks they followed into the barn the night before. With the aid of his flashlight, Reaper removed all doubt about the identity of the two transports. The deep cargo boxes on the back of both Gators had dark stains in them. The stains were almost black, even in the bright light of the SureFire. They were dried blood—and there was a lot of it. The dogs had done some serious damage when they had come to the rescue of Hausmann and Reaper during the ambush.