Chapter 20: Mexican Crossing

The whispering about the “penguin drop” as it was being called in hushed speculation around the agency refused to quiet down. Deputy director Alfred Jameson tried to keep a lid on the issue. He reminded the head of his analyst section that the incident was classified beyond a need to know security level. That seemed to stimulate more whispers and rumors.

Physical evidence of the “incident” remained at the McMurdo Sound research station, locked in the base commander’s office safe under full-time military guard. Agency investigation traced the suspected leak that triggered the Russian attacks to a lab technician, Sandy Johnson, who was unaware of security restrictions when she emailed a report of the alien cylinder and message to a research acquaintance at the Russian base. Jameson mentally shook his head: scientists seemed to live on a different planet as far as military and national security matters were concerned. Their universe depended on the free flow of information. Keeping secrets was not in their DNA. The technician was given a stern lecture, mild punishment, and a warning against further disclosures to friends and associates, foreign or domestic.

But the damage was done. Too many rumors were circulating, too many people at McMurdo Sound knew of the incident; the Russian base knew of the incident and the objects, and no one could guess how far the knowledge had spread from there. Jameson worried, with good reason, that he would no longer be able to contain the situation. He wondered how many other interested parties were now eyeing the calendar and planning an early season assault on Siple Island.

He had a much more ominous problem, however. He suspected what horrible consequences might result from a hostile exploration of the site, but he also realized that the Agency Director was impatient for results. The Director was growing increasingly suspicious by the day. Jameson wasn’t sure how much longer he could divert him from intervening.

Once they’d eased the big 4-Runner down the steep side trail, past the hazard of the rock outcroppings and back onto the main Jordan Creek road, they went speeding westward into the late afternoon sun. The desert road took them to US 95 and straight into the village of Jordan Valley for a hot meal and refueling. Mike took over driving. He followed US 95 west, then south to Nevada.

US 95 is lightly traveled. It stretches across the vast eastern Oregon sagebrush desert, rolling through wide valleys southward into the Nevada basin. The big SUV spooled off the miles, a bit over the posted speed limit under good driving conditions. Early evening found them in Winnemucca, a ranching and mining town. They found good food and clean rooms in a casino hotel.

Mike and Steve feasted on prime rib; Marie delighted in a chef’s salad. Over coffee, Mike offered his advice for getting themselves to the Mexican border crossing.

“I’d like to avoid the common freeway routes. Someone may have made this vehicle and its plates. They’ve also got a description of us from their Silver City spying, so I’d feel better if we stayed lost for as long as possible. Here’s my idea: we’re on US 95, and we can follow it down to Las Vegas. It’s a good “skinny road” used mostly by local travelers and truckers. There are small towns, gas stops, and cafes for our needs.

“I suggest we stay on US 95 past Las Vegas—we don’t want to stop there—and we continue southeast on US 95 right down through the eastern toe of California. There we’ll cross Interstate 40 at Needles. We’ll run like desert rats all the way, making good time.

“We’ll drop out of California at Blythe, catch Interstate 10, and scoot east a short distance to Arizona state highway 85 at Buckeye. We take 85 south to Gila Bend, stay on it through Ajo, and just south of there is Lukeville. We check through the Lukeville border station and enter Mexico.

“For distance, we’ve got about 365 miles from here to Las Vegas; another 175 miles south to Blythe on I-10, and then 150 miles from Blythe to Gila Bend. It’s another 70 miles down to the Lukeville crossing. We’ll go through Ajo, a former open-pit copper mining town, and the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. I’ll hazard a guess that no tracker, hacker, spooks or mafia soldiers will be thinking in terms of the improbable route we’ll be taking. They’ve got no reason to think we’re heading for Mexico, or South America, either.

“So, we’ve got a little over 750 miles to run. We could be at Lukeville by mid-morning day after tomorrow if we don’t push too hard. We should stop somewhere and get a good overnight’s rest. I’m going to pick up a disposable cell phone at the next box store; we need to check in with Rhys and Martha in Salt Lake City, and I’ve got some private calls to make on Agency business. I’ll keep my boss, Jameson, happy so he can keep the Director off his back. And we’ll need some special assistance to get us and our special delivery package into Mexico and onto a flight down to Chile.

“And just for FYI, you can plan on becoming damned travel-weary before we get to our seaport jumping off spot. It’s about 1,450 miles from Lukeville to Mexico City. I figure we’ll need three full days to make that run. Oh, another thing ... we won’t be using the Toyota. We need to hand it off to a friend of mine at the border. He’ll dispose of it for us. It’ll be simpler and safer to let a Mexican national, another friend of the Agency, drive us in his vehicle. He knows the roads, the rules, and the language, and he’ll arrange for all the right papers. Anyway, once we fly out of Mexico City it’s 5,800 miles and three stops. We’ll use a full day flying into Panama, then we’ll make two jumps down through Chile. Then we catch a shuttle flight into Punta Arenas. Believe me, you’ll be begging for a warm bed and a day’s rest after we get there.”

“Okay, Steve, we’re in your hands. It sounds like a plan to me. But I can’t help wondering: how in hell are we going to get our “package” across the border, through customs, and then onto an airplane?” Mike asked.

“No problem. We’ll be sneaky, evasive, and clever. We’ll prevail upon my good Agency buddy to provide us with papers, stickers and a special seal that will make our package all but invisible to official curiosity,” Steve smiled back at Mike.

“Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s simple ... we’ll be diplomatic couriers.”

Steve sipped his coffee, loving the skeptical expressions on Mike and Marie’s faces.

Gambling attractions failed to divert Mike, Steve or Marie from going right to their room after their meal. Mike booked a room with two queen-size beds: “Steve and you, witch woman, can share one bed. I’m sure that if he tries anything funny during the night, you’ll turn him into a horned hopping toad or something. I’ve got my own sweetie to share my dreams with ... and I’m sure not going to share my bed with any guy!”

Mike ducked Marie’s swinging fist at his shoulder and walked away toward the elevator. The sleeping arrangements worked as Mike had suggested. Before he fell asleep, he noticed that Marie had pulled Steve’s arm across herself to lay close against him in a tight snuggle.

The miles rolled away quickly the next day. They stopped at a motel in Henderson outside Las Vegas. Steve strolled from the room with his cell phone, then returned a short while later with a big smile.

“Tomorrow we’ll make an easy run of 290 miles. We’ll stop at Buckeye, Arizona on I-10. It’s only thirty miles this side of Phoenix. There’s a decent motel there, and we can hang out for a few days. I’ve got a contact in Phoenix who will expedite some resources for us. I’ll probably be gone for a day or two, maybe a bit longer, while I run some things down and wait for overnight delivery on a few other things. You two can catch up on your rest and maybe play tourist for a few days. Good plan?”

“Sure thing ... whatever you say, Steve. But won’t you need the 4-Runner?”

“Nope. I’ll have you guys drop me off at a place I know on the edge of Phoenix. I’ll meet my contact after you guys leave. You can take the rig back to Buckeye and use it for yourselves. Be sure to keep the extra cell phone with you in case we need to talk while I’m off running errands.”

Steve used three days for his errands. His most important chore was to brief his boss, Jameson, about their confrontation and escape from the Russians at Silver City. Steve was pretty sure that they’d made a clean get-away and couldn’t easily be tracked, but he suggested that the Agency might want to chase down the remnants of the Russians left behind in Idaho.

“We’ve already done that, Steve. You’ll probably enjoy hearing that not long after you got out of there, the Idaho State Police rounded them up. It seems they got two calls. One came through the 911 dispatch system from a very upset helicopter charter pilot. He said that three ‘Russian mafia’ types had hired him to fly them to a desert road on the west side of the Owyhee Mountain area. He dumped them there when the guys jumped out to set up an ambush in the road with assault weapons. I guess that’s the guys who tried to ambush you, huh?”

“Yeh, that’s what happened. One of the Russians, their leader, I think, popped off a couple of pistol rounds at the chopper when the pilot spun around and fled the scene.”

“Right, and he managed to punch a couple of holes in the guy’s bird. It really pissed him off, so that’s why he called the ISP. He gave them a good description of the three to the state cops. Then the ISP dispatcher got a second call, from a native American named Randy Larkspur. He reported some gun-toting Russian men lurking around the Dewey mine area down Jordan Creek, west of Silver City. He said they’d been seen with automatic weapons, camped out by their wrecked vehicle; something about they’d managed to jerk the rear axle out from under it and they were stranded there, causing problems for other campers.

“So the ISP, with backup from the Owyhee County Sheriff and a team of his deputies, went into the area from two directions and rounded them all up. They got credit for busting a ring of ‘terrorists’ and we’ve got them on ice in the Federal Building holding cells in Boise. I’m thinking that this time, maybe, we can shake a little information out of that team leader—Yavinsky is his name. He was pretty unhinged from his walk in the woods after you three eluded him.”

“Okay, great! But you’ll forgive me if I don’t feel any compassion for those guys. They were out to do us some serious harm.”

“No, there’s no sympathy from this end, either, although I should say that a couple of them, Yavinsky included, were in pretty rough shape by the time they were rounded up. I don’t think they’ll volunteer for any Idaho high desert camping again. So, I’m pretty confident we can get some decent intel from those guys, and I tend to share your confidence that you’re clear for awhile. I’m also inclined to think that’s the last of the Russian contingent that was on your tail. So, tell me, what is this about a ‘diplomatic package’ that you and Hawthorne need to haul down to Chile?”

“Well, fun-lovers, here’s the plan as it has shaped up so far,” Steve explained back at the Buckeye motel. He laid out the details for meeting a contact on the U.S. side of the Lukeville crossing, to take them through in the 4-Runner with their gear and the crate. Another contact, their new host and driver, would meet them on the Mexican side at Sonoyta and transfer everything over to his vehicle. They would then proceed on with him to Mexico City.

“Mike, welcome to the U.S. State Department. You have authorization and credentials as a U.S. Diplomatic Courier, in custody of a diplomatic ‘pouch’ for delivery to the U.S. Embassy at Santiago, Chile. Marie and I will be your humble helpers.”

While Mike stared, Steve opened a briefcase and pulled out three U.S. Passports, three travel visas for Mexico, and three money belts. Mike could see banded stacks of high-denomination Mexican peso notes half filling the briefcase.