“That’s what assistants are for, ma’am,” Purdy said.
“Thank you for your insights, Agent Purdy,” Kelsey said, letting a little exasperation show in her voice. “I just gave you one hour of my time to put together a plan of action to use Task Force TALON and the FBI to assist you in tracking down the terrorists that killed those Border Patrol agents. Now, if you’re not all jokes and hot air, you had better start talking to me, and it better be good. Jason, Ari, have a seat. When I get on my plane for Washington, I want a plan in place and all the players tagged and ready to go as soon as I get the word from the White House.”
Paul Purdy slapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly. “Now that’s what I was waitin’ to hear, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “It won’t take ten minutes to tell you what I want to do to track down those bastards that killed my friends and slaughtered those innocent people. Then, you tell me how you can help me do my job.
“This isn’t the Army, my friends; it ain’t the FBI; it ain’t even the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection,” he went on seriously, looking at each one of them in turn, then settling his gaze on Ariadna’s worried expression. “I’m talkin’ about the Border Patrol, the real Border Patrol. We been around a long time, doin’ our jobs the best we could. We do things a little differently out in the field. You follow my lead and help me do my job, and we’ll nail those murderous sons of bitches soonest.”
He looked Jason up and down with a smile on his face, then slapped him on the shoulder. “You’d better get busy growin’ some facial hair, young fella—if you can,” he said. “You look way too clean-cut for where we’re goin’.”
CHAPTER 5
CORONADO NATIONAL FOREST,
SOUTHEASTERN ARIZONA
TWO NIGHTS LATER
“Welcome to a very special edition of The Bottom Line, my friends and fellow Americans. I’m Bob O’Rourke, speaking to you from the Coronado National Forest about thirty miles southwest of Tombstone, Arizona, the site of the infamous Gunfight at the OK Corral and the home of tough-as-nails lawmen like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson. This is being taped for broadcast tomorrow morning. My voice may sound weird to you because I’m speaking into a special microphone mask that muffles my voice so it can’t be heard by others, which might reveal our presence. I’ll explain why I need this in a moment.
“I’m here with my sound engineer, Georgie Wayne, who has done stevedore’s work helping me haul our gear up these mountain passes tonight. It was quite an exhausting hike for me, and I only carried a light backpack—Georgie carried the rest of our stuff, and I give him all the credit in the world for humping all this gear for me. My tree-hugging producer, Fand Kent, is back in the studios in Las Vegas—she doesn’t have the legs or the stomach for this kind of work.
“We’re way up in the Huachuca Mountains, at about six-to seven-thousand feet elevation. It’s rocky, with lots of trees and scrub brush—easy to hide in, as countless generations of fugitives, gangsters, Native Americans, and outlaws well know. Nearby Millers Pass rises to an elevation of over 9,400 feet. The air is cool, even though the daytime temperatures exceeded ninety degrees, and the air is very still. There is a very thin moon out tonight. It’s a perfect night for an ambush.
“But it’s us who will be doing the ambush. I’m here with Alpha Patrol of the American Watchdog Project, the world-famous group of volunteers from all over the United States who have taken it upon themselves to do what the federal government and the military are apparently unwilling or—in the case of the abortive attempt by Task Force TALON in southern California recently—unable to do: patrol and protect America’s borders. We’re here tonight because we have credible, actionable information gleaned from informants and from the Watchdog’s own network of watchers, both on the ground and in the air, that a large number of illegal migrants will be heading this way to cross into the United States. With me on a wireless microphone is the American Watchdog Project’s commander, Herman Geitz. Can you hear me okay, Commander?”
“Loud and clear, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz replied. He was almost a foot taller than O’Rourke, with a bushy beard and large craggy features, wearing camouflaged forest hunting clothes, a Camel-Bak water bottle in his pack, and a web utility belt with a sidearm holster, flashlight, and other gear.
“Thank you for allowing The Bottom Line to accompany you on this mission, Herman. My first question is obvious: if your information is so accurate, where is the Border Patrol? Why aren’t they in on this?”
“Thank you for being here tonight with us, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz said. “To answer your question, the Border Patrol is here. The closest unit is down the trail about ten miles away at the base of the mountain, probably patrolling Route 83 and the Coronado Trail Road. The Border Patrol has about thirty agents that work in three shifts to patrol southwest Cochise County and half of Santa Cruz County, roughly between Nogales and Bisbee up to Interstate 10.”
“And how much territory is that?”
“That’s about a hundred and sixty square miles, Bob.”
“One hundred and sixty square miles of some of the most rugged, inhospitable, and dangerous land in the United States,” O’Rourke said. “Ten agents—basically one agent for every sixteen square miles.”
“It’s actually two agents per patrol,” Geitz corrected him, “so it’s five units plus a roving supervisor per shift for the entire patrol area.”
“How do they do it, Herman?” O’Rourke asked. “How is it possible to cover that much territory with only ten men per shift?”
“Like most small tactical units, Mr. O’Rourke, the Border Patrol relies on intelligence information and sensors, whether they be ground vibration alarms or helicopter patrols using infrared sensors,” Geitz replied. “In essence, the patrols position themselves according to the latest information they receive; and they respond to alarms, like a private security company patrolling a large gated community. Unfortunately, in this case, the ‘gated community’ is very large and very rugged, and there are no gates—the illegals can cross the border anywhere within twenty to thirty miles from where we’re standing, and if the Border Patrol’s not close by when they trip an alarm, they can make it without getting caught.”
“Sounds like an impossible task.”
“They’re backed up with two helicopters assigned to the Tucson Border Patrol sector, and they can call on local law enforcement and even Army soldiers from Fort Huachuca if necessary.”
“Ever see soldiers out here helping the Border Patrol, Herman?”
“I’ve seen one Army helicopter used to medevac an agent when he rolled his Ramcharger,” Geitz replied.
“How about the sheriffs’ department?”
“They help transport any detainees and provide the lockup until the Border Patrol transports prisoners to Tucson for processing.”
“So in essence it’s just five patrols and a supervisor to patrol this entire mountainous area…”
“And the Watchdogs,” Geitz said proudly. “We have almost a hundred volunteers out here patrolling the Coronado National Forest tonight. Stand by.” Geitz swung one microphone away from his lips, spoke quietly into another headset microphone, then brought O’Rourke’s mike back. “One of our patrols has made distant contact with a very large group of individuals moving through the Khyber Pass. Looks like our information is right on.”