"While all this was going on, the CIA and Homeland Security and every police force between here and Baltimore started chasing their tails-arf-arf-and when the ever-vigilant press got wind of this, they got in their helicopters and flew to Fort Detrick, where they chased their tails in the sky-arf-arf-until they were run off. If there was any danger to anyone at Fort Detrick today, it was from the clowns in the helicopters nearly running into each other. The Army scientists there know what they're doing."
"That could be, I suppose," Andy McClarren said very dubiously. "But what I would like to know is-"
Roscoe J. Danton saw the image of McClarren on the Club America TV replaced with an image of the logotype of Aerolineas Argentinas and a notice announcing the immediate departure of Aerolineas Argentinas Flight 1007, nonstop service to Buenos Aires from Gate 17.
"Christ," Danton complained out loud. "They told me it was delayed for at least two hours."
He stood up, and a firm believer in the adage that if one wastes not, one wants not, drained his drinks.
The Aerolineas Argentinas announcement then was replaced first with the whirling globes of Wolf News, and then by the image of an aged former star of television advising people of at least sixty-two years of age of the many benefits of reverse mortgages.
Roscoe, who had been hoping to get another glimpse of the royally pissed-off Andy McClarren, said, "Shit!"
Then he hurriedly walked out of Club America. [ONE] United States-Mexico border near McAllen, Texas 0730 5 February 2007 "What the fuck is that?" United States Border Patrol agent Guillermo Amarilla inquired in Spanish of Senior Patrol Agent Hector Hernandez as the latter stepped hard on the brakes of their green Jeep station wagon.
The station wagon skidded on the rutted dirt road, coming to a stop at nearly a right angle. On one side of the road was a sugarcane field. On the other was waist-high brush. The brush extended for about one hundred fifty yards, ending at the bank of the Rio Grande. The demarcation line between the United States and the Estados Unidos Mexicanos was at the center of the river, which at that point was just over one hundred yards wide.
The dirt road, ten yards from where the Jeep had stopped, was blocked.
An oblong insulated metal box was sitting on a plank suspended between two plastic five-gallon jerrycans.
Nailed to the plank was a large sign hand-lettered??PELIGROSO!! and??DANGER!!
Amarilla and Hernandez, without speaking, were out of the vehicle in seconds. Both held Remington Model 870 12-gauge pump shotguns. Crouching beside the station wagon, Hernandez carefully examined the brush, and Amarilla the sugarcane field.
"Undocumented immigrants" sometimes vented their displeasure with Border Patrol agents' efficiency by ambushing Border Patrol vehicles.
Amarilla straightened up and continued looking.
After perhaps sixty seconds, he asked, "You hear anything?"
Hernandez shook his head, and stood erect.
"You think that's a wetback IED?" Amarilla asked.
Both men had done tours with their National Guard units in Iraq, and had experience with improvised explosive devices.
"It could be a fucking bomb, Guillermo."
"I don't see any wires," Amarilla said.
"You don't think a cell phone would work out here?"
Hernandez sought the answer to his own question by taking his cell phone out of his shirt pocket.
"Cell phones work out here," he announced.
"Maybe they left," Guillermo offered.
"And maybe they're waiting for us to get closer."
"Should I put a couple of loads in it and see what happens?"
"No. It could be full of cold beer. These fuckers would love to be able to tell the story of the dumb fucks from La Migra who shot up a cooler full of cerveza."
Guillermo took a closer look at the container.
"It's got signs on it," he said.
He reached into the station wagon and came out with a battered pair of binoculars.
After a moment, he said, "It says, 'Danger: Biological Hazard.' What the fuck?"
He handed the binoculars to Hernandez, who took a close look.
He exhaled audibly, then reached for his cell phone and hit a speed-dial number.
"Hernandez here," he said into it. "I need a supervisor out here, right now, at mile thirty-three."
There was a response, to which Hernandez responded, "I'll tell him when he gets here. Just get a supervisor out here, now." Ten minutes later, a Bell Ranger helicopter settled to the ground at mile thirty-three.
Two men got out. Both had wings pinned to their uniforms. One was a handsome man with a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He had a gold oak leaf pinned to his uniform collar points. In the Army, it would be a major's insignia. Field Operations Supervisor Paul Peterson was known, more or less fondly, behind his back as "Our Gringo."
The second man, who had what would be an Army captain's "railroad tracks" pinned to his collar points, was Supervisory Border Patrol Agent Domingo Garcia. He was known behind his back as "Hard Ass."
Both men walked to Hernandez and Amarilla, who were leaning against their Jeep station wagon.
"What have you got?" Hard Ass inquired not very pleasantly.
Hernandez pointed to the obstruction in the road, then handed the binoculars to Peterson.
Peterson peered through them and studied the obstruction. After a long moment, he said, "What in the fuck is that?" [TWO] Ministro Pistarini International Airport Ezeiza Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1135 5 February 2007 At the same moment that Supervisory Border Patrol Agent Domingo "Hard Ass" Garcia had put the binocs to his eyes-when it was 0835 in McAllen, Texas, it was 1135 in Buenos Aires-Roscoe J. Danton of The Washington Times-Post stepped off the ramp leading from Aerolineas Argentinas Flight 1007. As he entered the Ezeiza terminal proper, he thought for a moment that he had accidentally gone through the wrong door. He found himself in a large duty-free store, complete with three quite lovely young women handing out product-touting brochures.
"Clever," he said, admiringly and out loud.
Someone down here has figured out a good way to get the traveling public into the duty-free store: place the store as the only passage between the arriving passenger ramp and the terminal.
But screw them. I won't buy a thing.
He started walking through the store.
Fifty feet into it, though, he had a change of heart. He had come to a display of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch whisky, and remembered what he had learned as a Boy Scout: "Be Prepared."
Three boxes of his favorite intoxicant were cellophane-wrapped together and offered at a price he quickly computed to be about half of what he paid in Washington, D.C.
He picked up one of the packages and went through the exit cash register, charging his purchase to his-actually, The Washington Times-Post's-American Express corporate credit card. He examined his receipt carefully and was pleased. It read that he had charged $87.40 for unspecified merchandise in the store.
If it had said "three bottles Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch," there would have been a note from Accounting reminding him that intoxicants could be charged to The Washington Times-Post only when connected to business entertaining, and as he had not identified on his expense report whom he had entertained, it was presumed that the whisky was for his personal consumption and therefore the $87.40 would be deducted from his next paycheck, and in the future, please do not charge personal items to the corporate credit card.
Accounting, he theorized, would probably give him the benefit of the doubt in this instance because it didn't say "whisky" and assume he had purchased, for example, items of personal hygiene, which were considered legitimate expenses when he was traveling.
Or maybe a battery for his-The Washington Times-Post's-laptop computer.