He dragged them by the feet into a shallow ravine maybe a hundred yards away from their post. He dumped them in and covered their bodies with brush after taking their badges and their weapons. He thought about burying them, but decided he didn’t have the time. Or a shovel, he thought, and laughed harshly.
He wiped away scuff marks and footprints and traces of blood and brains as best he could. With a little luck, it would be hours before the two bodies were discovered. It was the first time he’d killed an enemy since the Great War, unless he counted a couple of Mexicans, but Mexicans don’t count at all.
A slowly moving dot and plume of dust in the distance marked another vehicle heading toward the United States. When they saw the abandoned post, Braun hoped they’d continue on, thanking their good luck that said they didn’t have to declare what they were bringing in. At least that’s what he would do. Finally, he cut the telephone line leading to the shack.
Humming softly, he lifted the wooden bar, left it open, and drove into California.
“Why me?” Dane asked. “I thought I was going to be an observer on the PBY raid on Anchorage?”
“You are,” said Merchant. “It’s going to be your punishment for suggesting it. But it’ll be a couple of days before we’ve got the planes all in a row and ready to fly.”
The navy was gathering a dozen of the Catalinas and sending them to Vancouver where bombs would be added. In the meantime, Merchant had a job for him. There had been an incident at a border crossing and there were concerns about Japanese saboteurs crossing into California. For a variety of reasons, Dane had his doubts about that, but kept silent. Whatever thoughts and doubts he had, he would bring them back from the border and discuss them with Merchant.
Two hours later he had been flown to the border in a Piper Cub piloted by a kid who said he was fourteen and wanted to kill Japs when he was old enough to enlist in the navy. Dane also found that the kid’s parents were divorcing and that his father drank a lot and beat up on his mother. Dane wished him well. They landed on a road near the border, where a stocky middle-aged man in a rumpled suit met them.
“You Commander Dane? If so, I’d like to see some ID. I’m Special Agent Roy Harris, FBI,” he said and flashed his own credentials. Dane did as well and also showed Harris his hastily typed orders. Harris grunted and seemed satisfied that Dane was for real.
“Commander, do you understand what’s happened here?”
“Very little. I was told there’d been an incident and, since I’m with intelligence and otherwise free for a couple of days, I was tagged to come down here. I also read and speak Japanese, if that’s important.”
Harris looked impressed. “It might come to that, but not today. What we have here, however, is a double murder. Sometime early this morning, either somebody or a group of somebodies murdered two border guards. Shot them in the back and then in the back of the head just to make sure. The bodies are on ice in town and, unless you have a strong stomach and a devout wish to see them, you can take my word about the shootings. The bodies are in terrible shape after being swollen by the sun and chewed on by a host of animals.”
Dane grimaced. “I’ll pass, thank you. I saw enough torn up bodies when the Enterprise went down.”
Harris was clearly impressed, then recognized the Purple Heart Dane had thought to wear. “You’ll have to tell me about that some time. I had a cousin on the Hornet. He’s missing and his family can’t deal with the fact that he’s probably dead.”
Harris shook his head. “In the meantime, here’s what we do know. The two men were likely first shot in the back and then in the head to finish them off, and their bodies dragged into the brush. We don’t know how many people were involved in the shooting, and we have no idea how many vehicles they drove, or how many went by the border afterwards and just drove by since nobody was in the post.
“Finally, some good citizens got curious about the buzzards congregating off a ways and seeming to have a good time, and checked it out. They tried to call on the post’s phone, but the line had been cut. They went into town and called the sheriff, who called me since it was federal property and federal agents have jurisdiction. I got here an hour ago. The sheriff says it was Japs trying to sneak in. We found some tire tracks where somebody had tried to erase them and we think they came from a truck. What do you think?”
They walked to the border and looked around. The tracks in question were barely visible. He’d take the agent’s word that they came from a truck. Dane stared in disbelief at the shack. “Do people actually work in there?”
“Yeah, and for damn little pay, which makes it worse. They were good guys. Each was married and had kids.”
Dane looked around and tried to think. Japs? It just didn’t seem right to him.
“Agent Harris, I think the sheriff’s wrong about it being Japs and I think you know it. It just isn’t logical. If the guards were shot in the back, that means they had turned away from their attacker or attackers and they wouldn’t do that if they were dealing with Japs, even ones born in the U.S. National paranoia’s just too deep for border cops to let that happen. I also think there was only one person, and likely a man, since the guards didn’t seem concerned enough to split up and keep an eye on somebody else. I also think it was a white guy and someone who probably appeared to be an American. Anything other than a white man, even a Mexican, would have set off alarm bells.”
Harris grinned, “Damned good. I’m almost impressed. Now, do you think it was a smuggler?”
Dane gave it some further thought before replying in the negative. “I had an uncle who was a cop in Texas and he liked to tell a lot of stories. Once he told me that smugglers tend to be locals who know all the back trails and how to avoid problems with border crossings like this. He told me that driving right up the road to a customs post is something you do only if you absolutely have to. Given the openness of the border, real smugglers wouldn’t have been caught. I think the killer isn’t from here and very likely not smuggling in anything more than himself.”
“And the contents of the truck,” Harris added. “And they all had to be worth killing for. I’ve got a local doctor pulling out the bullets and he’s said they might have come from a Luger. However, he’s more certain that they came from the same weapon. We’ll know for certain when run a ballistics check.”
Harris walked to his car and popped the trunk. A cooler was inside. He opened it and handed Dane an ice-cold bottle of Coke, taking another for himself.
“Not bad thinking for a navy guy,” Harris said. “I’m glad they sent you. I was afraid they’d ship me the least qualified person they have just to say they were trying to help out.”
Dane took a swallow and belched lightly. Coke always did that to him. He thought he might still be the least qualified person in the office for this kind of work, but kept quiet.
“How come nobody heard gunshots?” Dane asked.
Harris shrugged. “They probably did and thought it was either hunters or something else, like a backfire. Either way, people don’t get involved in somebody else’s business down here. I’ve asked around and a couple of the local yokels think they maybe heard a truck driving off about the right time we think this happened. Nobody saw it, of course. It wouldn’t surprise me if a lot of people around here did some periodic smuggling, so they’d all believe in live and let live.”