Shepherd One

CHAPTER THREE

The Mexican version of a coyote was one who guided illegal aliens into US territory undetected. On this day, however, Juan Pallabos escorted an exclusive clientele who paid an admission price of $25,000—an incredibly sweet windfall — from three Arab men who wore nondescript clothing, such as non-patterned shirts and Dockers. None of them spoke or acknowledged the Mexican in any way, making Pallabos feel less significant in their presence. But for 25,000 American dollars, he could have cared less. In fact, he would have sealed his mouth shut with thread, if that’s what they wanted.

As the van moved unevenly along the desert terrain, its tires kicking rooster-tail plumes of dust in its wake, the Arabs sat quietly as the temperature soared to more than 110 degrees in the van’s interior.

Lying on the floor in the rear of the van sat an aluminum case. The shell was dull-coated silver and centered between the Arabs. If the coyote knew what he was transporting, he might have forsaken the five-figured amount. But a condition for receiving such a large amount is that he asks no questions. Therefore, not a single inquiry passed his lips.

With a great prudence Juan Pallabos maneuvered across the terrain careful not to damage an axle, and then came to an abrupt stop where the tires skidded a few feet in the soft desert sand. Through the dust-laden windshield he could see a battery of heat rising off the desert floor, and sage swaying softly with the course of a hot wind.

Saguaro and Joshua trees dotted the landscape that was colored with the reddish hues of sandstone, rather than the conventional yellow-brown of desert sand. In the distance the horizon appeared uneven in pointed caps and rises, giving it a saw-tooth appearance, which would serve as insurmountable obstacles for Pallabos’s van.

“We can go no further,” said the coyote, stepping out of the vehicle. He walked toward the horizon, appraised it, and then he removed his hat and passed a handkerchief across his brow. “The land is too uneven. My vehicle can go no further.”

The Arabs exited the van. Their shirts were tacky with sweat and their flesh slick with sheen. Carefully, two of the Arabs handled the aluminum case, one on each end, and placed it on the desert floor while the third Arab took residence next to Pallabos.

“Twelve kilometers straight ahead,” said Pallabos, pointing. “Once you get over the hills, then you will be all right. The American border is too large for the patrols to watch and maintain consistently. You should have no trouble getting across. But stay away from cartel tunnels. Drug lords no like others to use. But crossing over is very easy. And I suggest that you wait until the sun goes down, si?”

“Then drive us as far as you can.”

“No-no. No can do from here. Land is too much — how you say, difficult to cover. Must have way back, si?”

The Arab didn’t look at Pallabos, his eyes straight ahead. “We could have paid someone else much less to take us further.”

“No-no, Señor. Juan Pallabos is the best. Everybody say so. Not possible.”

The Arab mopped his brow with the back of his hand. The desert heat was much drier in his homeland, which was far more preferable than the sapping white sun that hung stingingly over his head at the moment. “Do you want more money? Is that why you stopped?” The Arab’s tone was flat, smooth, even.

“No-no, Señor. Juan Pallabos is an honest man. Van get damaged if go any further. Juan tells truth. Juan knows.”

“Then how do you expect us to travel twelve kilometers in this heat?”

Pallabos smiled, intuiting the question. “Huh, Juan brought plenty of water. Plenty of water.” He returned to the van and opened the front passenger door. Lying on the floor were six canteens filled with water. “Plenty of water, si? At night it will only take three hours to cross into United States. Three. Very easy. Juan Pallabos send many across the border. Juan Pallabos the best.”

The Arab took a long pull of air through his nostrils and released it in an equally long sigh. “Then I guess we no longer need your services.”

“Si, Juan provide. Juan the best, si?”

“Unfortunately for you, Mr. Pallabos, we cannot leave any witnesses behind. I’m sure you understand.”

Pallabos’s face dropped, his features taking on the sudden looseness of a rubber mask.

Reaching behind him, the Arab withdrew a Sig. with an attached suppressor from the waistband of his Dockers and fired the weapon three times in rapid succession, dropping Pallabos to the desert floor.

Returning the weapon, the Arab, who was tall and lean and walked with a mild limp that served as a vestige after combating American troops in Iraq, moved toward the aluminum case and placed his palms flat against the container. Even under the hot desert sun the shell was cool to the touch. Undoing the clasps, the Arab lifted the lid.

Everything was in its place beneath the Plexiglas shield, the circuitry secured, the spheres undamaged, which the Arab worried about over the course of the rough terrain. The Russians had manufactured well.

After closing the lid and clamping it shut, the Arab stood and surveyed the distance toward the American border. “We will take the van as far as we can, and then dump it.”

With a sweeping gesture of his hand, his comrades lifted the aluminum case and returned it to the van.

Less than five minutes later they began to traverse the difficult terrain in the van. And less than half mile from their launch point the vehicle became mired in sand, the van going nowhere.

Juan Pallabos was right after all.

On the western approach to the American/Mexican border from the Baja, California route, a separate team of three Middle Easterners crossed over into American territory undetected. The aluminum case they carried was safe and secure, the spheres inside undamaged. And in the end no one could believe how simple it was to maneuver over to the other side. There was not a single border agent, helicopter or roving patrol vehicle in sight. There were no dogs or fences or obstacles to act as a deterrent. Getting the aluminum case and its cargo into the United States proved to be less of an adversity than initially planned for; there was absolutely no challenge from the opposition, absolutely no one to stop them.

It was that simple.

Team Three also managed to slip undetected across the American border from the New Mexico point, a part of the 2,000 mile stretch with Mexico that was habitually thin when trying to keep a vigilant eye out for those who cross over illegally. Now with the second device easily into New Mexico, the team had received word that Team Two had crossed over from the Baja route unchallenged.

All that was left to do was to rendezvous with Team One, which had yet to be heard from on the Arizona front.