Chapter 12: Rustlers and Wranglers

Friday, August 28, 1300 MT—Missoula

“James!” Janice cried as the elevator dinged on the fifth floor of the EBK building. She dashed forward on her bare feet, leaping into his arms as he entered the newly renovated apartment. He caught her light frame and held her in a warm embrace as she wrapped her legs around his thighs.

He looked around approvingly, “I like what you’ve done with the place.” His expression brightened when a familiar bark erupted from a hallway across from the elevator. The much-grown coyote hybrid raced into the common room, alerting the entire apartment of a visitor. She held back warily as he lowered his former secretary to her feet. “Hello there, little bit,” he smiled, crouching to hold out his hand. It had been less than two weeks, but the creature had doubled in size. “Remember me?” It took her a heartbeat to respond with eager yips and charge into his hands, spinning, tumbling at his feet, and licking his fingers. “I guess that’s an affirmative.”

“Her name is Sumy.”

He looked up to see Anika in the hallway, regarding him with an uncertain expression. Sofia appeared behind her and smiled brightly. “That is a fine name,” he replied, settling to his knees while the pup wiggled in his arms, yipping and licking his face. He smiled at the teenager. “You look great, Ani. And so does your sister.” Both girls had changed since he had seen them last. They stood tall, their haunted expressions replaced with happiness, and they exuded confidence.

Sofia made no effort to contain her emotions as she moved forward, her eyes brimming. Janice stepped back as he straightened and held an arm out for her embrace. She sniffed into his shoulder, and he touched his cheek to her head. “It’s good to see you,” he murmured. That was the only invitation Anika needed before she took a shuddering breath and dashed forward. He set Sumy down just in time to gather the emotional girl in his other arm. Even on his knees, he was nearly eye-to-eye with the two women. They clung to him tightly for almost a minute before detaching themselves and standing back.

“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!” a musical voice cried out from the adjacent hallway. He looked up to find Janice’s fiancée grinning at him. Marta Sleeping Bear wore a colorful dress to her mahogany-toned knees, decorated with bright tribal patterns reflecting her Crow heritage. Her wavy black hair hung unbraided around her shoulders. She danced into his arms, laughing as he stood and welcomed her. “Whew ... baby,” she cooed, fanning herself after the hug. “Even out of uniform, you make a girl rethink her convictions.” She winked as she ran her fingers across the fleece sweater stretched across his chest.

“Pfft,” Janice scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Back off, tramp. He’s mine!” She responded to her lover’s playful sneer by sticking her tongue out. Glancing back at James, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? How long can you stay?” She took his hand and led him to an oversized easy chair, prompting him to sit. Next to the chair was a plush couch facing a pair of matching love seats over a low coffee table crafted from reclaimed barn wood. She took out her cell phone and sent a quick text.

“Just the weekend,” he replied, studying the area. The hallway stretched in either direction, dividing the space and separating the common room/entryway from an equally spacious open kitchen and dining room. Anika had wandered into the well-appointed kitchen, with Sumy escorting her. She returned with a Mirror Pond IPA, offering it to him sheepishly before perching on the recliner’s arm. He thanked her and took a long drink before continuing, “How is your mom?”

Janice sighed contentedly and gestured toward a door in the right wall between two large bookcases. “She is napping,” she answered. “Her room is across from Sofia’s.” Her eyes and expression held no trace of apprehension over her mother’s Alzheimer’s. “She still has good and bad days, but as we adjust to our new living arrangements, she seems more resilient and aware. A home nurse attends her and helps with her physical therapy on weekdays.” She sat on the opposite arm of his recliner and placed her hand on his shoulder as if to reassure herself of his presence.

They spoke idly for another minute before the elevator dinged again. Everyone turned to see Sullivan Johannsen wearing a thick navy robe and slippers. The 68-year-old Operations Chief and Chairman of the Board wandered across the room with his signature limp, favoring his right leg from scoliosis. He carried a six-pack of Corona, handing one to James as Sumy greeted him excitedly. The Ukrainian teenager rose to give him a cheery hug, calling him Uncle Sully. James noted the subtle change in his friend’s expression from gruff indifference to ... compassion. Uncle Sully?

“Good to see ya, Jimbo,” he greeted softly. “Run out of terrorists to kill?”

James handed the empty IPA to Janice before opening the Corona. “Not hardly,” he replied as the man settled onto the loveseat. “Rob was coming this way, so I tagged along. Hopefully, we can stay all weekend.” During the Gulfstream flight, Jim received a text from Savage.

’Ad Wali is spilling his guts!’

1400 CT, Del Rio, Texas

Calvin straightened in his workbench chair, removed his glasses, and rubbed his nose. He looked up as his wife, Maria, entered his workspace carrying a steaming cup of coffee. After 17 years of marriage, she still took his breath away with her soft, brown, adoring eyes. Today, she wore a simple muslin Huipil dress embroidered with traditional blood-red dahlias, reflecting her pure Tarahumara Indigenous background.

“You’ve been up all night, mi Corazón,” she purred, setting the cup down and massaging his stiff neck and shoulders.

He moaned appreciatively and leaned back with his eyes closed, relishing her touch. “It is necessary, babe,” he sighed. Before him were a partially disassembled drone, a handful of computer chips, and odd-looking contraptions connecting them to his computer with colored wires. The telemetry program was the same basic system he co-wrote with a classmate at MIT.

“Tití is pushing you hard,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing her cheek to his ear. “Are the cattle not all accounted for now?”

He didn’t reply, keeping his eyes closed and savoring the smell and feel of her rich, ebony hair caressing his face. Driven as he was, he felt no guilt for this moment of peace while his subconscious dwelled over the unsettling discovery he hadn’t shared with her after his last rendezvous with Grant’s hands out past the San Francisco wash. He started when his cell phone vibrated and began playing Amarillo by Morning on the workbench. He snatched it up, noting the blocked number before answering, “Hello?”

“Is this CJ Jackson?”

He straightened abruptly, unaware of Maria’s arms pulling away. “Jimmy?” he replied as relief rushed through him. “James Keller?”

“Good to hear from ya, buddy,” James replied in his ear. His voice was familiar, but ... changed over the years. “Been a minute. How are you? How’s Maria?”

Calvin gripped his wife’s hand before she could leave for privacy. He put the phone on speaker. “She’s more beautiful than ever.” He said, beaming at her as he stood.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” his former classmate replied warmly.

“Oh, you soldier boys are so flattering,” she grinned as he led her into their richly appointed living room. They sat together on the couch, holding hands while they caught up for several minutes. She felt the tension in her husband as the small talk faded.

“What can I do for you?” James asked. “Janice says you went through the hoops trying to reach me.”

That was no lie. “Saw you on TV,” he replied neutrally. “You look good.” He paused. “I wanted to ask about your upgrades to Traciware 2.0.” They wrote the software for the telemetry application as a joint lab project and named it after a vivacious coed they both fancied. “I incorporated it into a chip to keep track of our cattle—” There was something in his voice as he described the butchered cows discovered last week. James listened quietly, sensing something else as he described his goal to incorporate biorhythm sensors to monitor each animal’s stress level. There was an uneasy pause after he finished.

“Then we ... discovered something else yesterday while checking the other herds grazing on shared land.” CJ swallowed nervously. He felt Maria’s questioning glance as he gazed at the longhorns on the wall above the mantle. “While investigating another handful of butchered cattle ... we found a body.”

James sensed there was more to it. “I’m listening.”

Calvin took a deep breath and continued, “It was in a shallow grave, about 8 miles southeast of Del Rio, in scrub lands,” he explained. “Hadn’t been dead more than a day, and coyotes dug up enough to draw the buzzards, which is how we found it 500 yards away. There was a dead horse, too, stolen from another ranch last week with others. Grant, the rancher, said it was a wildling and couldn’t figure out why anyone would want it.” He breathed and cleared his throat, prompting Maria to fetch his cooling coffee. “We figure the guy broke his neck, and from the proximity of the stallion ... well, it’s easy to speculate. But that isn’t the interesting part.” He straightened and accepted the cup from his wife, acknowledging her expression as she sat beside him.

“Do tell,” he heard over the phone. A muffled voice was in the background. “Okay, I see where you are,” James noted, holding the tablet Janice handed him. “Closest I’ve been is San Antonio.”

Calvin nodded and swallowed. “We saw you on TV talking about the crazy shit happening around the country.” He remembered the worn field jacket and utility pants on the body and the long back strip of cloth wrapped around its head—the Middle Eastern features. “I think the body is one of your terrorist insurgents.”

Four hours later, the Gulfstream landed at Laughlin AFB and taxied to the VIP section before shutting down. Fetching Gallagher from his bunker was sacrilegious, and he threatened James with a court martial before grudgingly agreeing to fly them down to investigate. He grumbled about their short-lived weekend pass that lasted only a few hours.

CJ met him with the base commander, who had assembled a team of specialized airmen for transportation and security. They climbed into Humvees and set out for the Lazy D Ranch.

“Yep,” James stated, stepping away from the body bag. He studied his phone after uploading a picture of his (mostly) intact face. “Abdulah Zandar, 25. Turkmenistani. Known ties with ASM—” He showed Gallagher his phone. “Entered on a flagged student visa three weeks ago.”

“What’s ASM?” CJ asked, avoiding the body bag as it was zipped up and carried away.

“Al Shamshir Moghodas—”

“Gesundheit.” He smirked at James’ tolerant expression, reminding the older man of the full-of-himself boy genius from MIT who appeared during his second year.

“They call themselves the Divine Sword. A Taliban-based subsect devoted to the governing sect of Shia Islam—”

“Just looks like a dead raghead to me,” a swarthy older man in riding gear drawled. He was introduced to James as Caden Grant, owner of the Double Aught Cattle Ranch. He was a middle-aged man with leathery features and a contrary opinion of the government.

“Their presence here, this close to the border—” Galagher suggested, shielding his eyes as he glanced southwest.

James disagreed. He gestured at the wind-blown tundra. “There’s no better place to hide under your enemy’s nose.” He held up his vibrating phone and nodded. “Based on estimates, between the cows slaughtered on your grazing grounds—” he looked at his former classmate and nodded to Grant, “—and the ones near the dead insurgent, my team estimates the scavenged meat would have fed roughly three dozen men, for a day ... maybe two.”

“Be kinda hard to conceal that many militants out here,” the General replied skeptically as he looked around. He missed the look shared by Calvin and the older cattleman.

“Easier than you’d think,” the younger man replied. He was about to explain when he turned to the staged tactical vehicles nearby. A large topographical map was laid out on the hood of a Humvee. He gestured for them to follow and pointed out several features. “Canyons run through this area. At least half a dozen could shelter a small army from observation if they were careful with their fires and used the overhangs and caves to hide their vehicles.”

James pushed his sunglasses up to his brow and turned to stare meaningfully at his friend and superior officer.

Gallagher frowned as understanding dawned. “What?” he stammered. “Look, Jim, I backed you on your point paper. Okay?” he held up his hands defensively. “But it’s gonna be a tough sell to Fletcher when he reads it, and you’d better be ready to back it up.”

Instead of responding, James turned to the two ranchers and said, “Can you track them and find their hiding spot?”

Calvin smiled while his colleague spat his dip into the dusty soil. “Sheeit, son. We already did.”

Saturday, August 29, 0630 CT—West Texas

The RF-16 or F-16(R) was a standard Fighting Falcon fitted with a cumbersome Red Barone recce pod. Before the Global Hawk ($95 million drone), the less costly reconnaissance fighter was the go-to platform for quickly getting eyes on the ground with digital clarity that only multi-million dollar Vinten cameras could provide. They were made exclusively for the pod. One of the jets was at Laughlin for annual maintenance and re-certification.

That Sunday afternoon, dense clouds covered the narrow grid coordinates encompassing San Padre Celeste Canyon and the surrounding foothills. No camera could penetrate clouds in the visual spectrum. Forced below the 5,000-foot cloud layer, the jet was visible, and its contrail betrayed consideration that it was commercial. The distant rip of its single engine as it flew through the stratocumulus layer was another giveaway.

The pilot made a clean pass over the suspected insurgent camp and confirmed it contained enemy combatants, isolating and identifying several of them.

When a strike team was finally assembled, organized, and airlifted to the location, the military found nothing but the remains of an abandoned camp.

1200 CT—Laughlin AFB

James was pissed! He glowered at the XO of the 47^th Training Wing, a Major who had flown the reconnaissance mission. Gallagher sat quietly in the briefing room, trying to contain his frustration while his friend verbally ripped into the unapologetic pilot. They brought standard ACUs aboard the Gulfstream. The major argued he flew the mission well within the prescribed parameters. Still, nothing could make up for the fact that the prurient insurgents detected him and abandoned their position. Still, the Major argued that his intelligence would be invaluable, contrary to the opinions of both superior officers.

“Jim.”

James paused his scathing dissection of the other man to glance at his friend, who was holding up an encrypted cell phone.

“We’ve been invited back to the ranch (in this case, that meant the Pentagon) to brief the Joint Chiefs.”

Fuck!

1800 CT—Duprey Residence

“Leave it to the gub’ment with their fancy toys to fuck things up.”

Ann glanced across the room from her seat at the grand table, watching CJ lead Caden into the lavish dining room. She ignored his outburst while glaring at her nephew with a piercing gaze. “How could you let this happen?” she demanded, setting aside the cutlery from a light supper. “Why involve those Air Force idiots?”

Her tone made him clear his throat uncomfortably as he considered his response. “Um ... Aunty Ann,” he stammered.

“Weren’t the boy’s fault,” her neighbor interjected, holding an old coffee cup to spit tobacco juice into. Her nostrils flared as a dangerous light crept into her eyes that only CJ recognized.

“Mr. Grant,” she said in a low voice that belied her annoyance. “I need to speak with my nephew, so kindly remove yourself from my home and return once you’ve cleared that disgusting wad of chewing tobacco!”