Chapter 3

09:00 Saturday, 11 May 1991
Provost Marshal Post, Ft Huachuca, AZ

The sergeant behind the desk pointed toward the two Border Patrol Agents leaning against the wall near the coffee machine. Soldiers, thought Sandy, do not lean against walls while waiting in the entrance to the Provost Marshal's Post.

As they approached, the taller of the two straightened, prompting the other to turn. After a quick exchange of glances, the shorter man greeted them. "Hi. I'm Agent Rey Munoz, and this sorry excuse for a border cop is Jorge Silverman."

Sandy studied the two. Muscular and stocky, Silverman was lighter-skinned and clean-shaven. Munoz had a broader face and a thin moustache, reminding Sandy of her middle-school principal. Keeping her humor suppressed, Sandy delivered a smooth "Specialist Sparks, Delta, Eighty-Sixth Signal."

Ben echoed behind her, "PFC Collins. Pleased to meet you."

After handshakes were exchanged, Agent Munoz led the way out the door. Sandy asked from her position behind Silverman, "Agent Munoz, do you know where you're going?"

"Nope," he answered, "I was hoping you'd take us to the rest of the team."

Sandy didn't respond for a moment, as she took stock of the situation. Each Border Patrol Agent (BPA) had a white-and-green 1989 Crown Victoria, parked next to Ben's borrowed Pontiac. "Ben, go lose the Battle-B's car. We'll meet you at the company lockup," she directed. "Jorge, you follow Rey and me." Sandy chose to ignore the penetrating stare Munoz shot at her.

Once in the car, after Sandy supplied directions, Rey seemed quiet. The second time Rey stole a quick glance at her, she asked, "What?"

"Oh, nothing. You're quite the take-charge soldier. Kind of unusual, I think, for an E4," referring to Sandy's paygrade[1]. "You look like you've been in, what, a year?"

Sandy felt her forehead wrinkle in a slight frown. "Just over two, now. They gave me Distinguished Honor Grad in Basic and again in AT[2], so they promoted me twice. They made me the Guide, since I didn't play the games the other soldiers did, I guess. It didn't make me any friends, though." Sandy smoothed her face and stopped talking, since she'd let something slip.

"No, I imagine it didn't." During the drive to the company loading dock, he described the operation the Border Patrol wanted the Army to help with, emplacing infrared heat sensors across illegal immigration 'trails'. The trails weren't actual trails, but anecdotal landmarks given the aliens crossing the border. This tended to keep them within corridors a few miles wide as they traveled across the unforgiving desert for three days. Thus, sensor lines deployed across the corridor would give an indication of border traffic.

Ben waited at the lockup, having trotted from the parking lot beside Building 104 across the parade area to the lockup at the back of Building 102. Sandy unlocked the cage. "Here's the equipment."

"Won't fit in the CV," Jorge passed judgment. "Trunk's full of gear already. Probably not in the backseat, either. How much do those batteries weigh?"

"About eighty pounds each," Sandy replied absently, having moved one earlier. "Probably don't want to have them on the seats, either." She studied the two BPAs and came to a decision. I want them to think I know what I'm doing, I guess. "Ben," she said as she handed him the key MSgt Brown gave her, "Drag one of each type of those crates and four of those batteries out. Agent Munoz and I are going to draw a pickup. We should be back in about twenty minutes."

Ben only nodded. To the rancher's son he was, it made sense. You need a truck, you get one. Only problem is, I have no idea how to get one. Silverman gave her a look she had trouble deciphering, though Munoz gave her a small smile. Sandy shrugged, and turned for the Crown Vic. "Hey," she called back to Munoz, after five steps. "You coming?"

Once behind the wheel of his Crown Victoria, Rey asked, "Okay, where to?"

"The carwash at the chapel." Sandy watched as he shook his head. He must have decided I know what I'm doing, she thought. At least one of us is reassured.

"You know, most soldiers would have let this stop them. They'd have their Saturday afternoon free to be with the boyfriend." Though he didn't ask a question, Sandy sensed this was an invitation.

"Huh," she said. "I'm not 'most soldiers'. And I didn't have anything else to do today. Besides, I'm kinda interested in what we're doing with the telemetry equipment."

"Call me Rey," he offered.

"Sandy," she replied. During the drive, Sandy discovered he'd been a Border Patrol agent for 10 years, was a native of Las Cruces, NM, and was married with a wife and two daughters in Gila Bend.

The Saturday morning carwash was an event Sandy normally avoided. She had no vehicle, and thus no need to spend three dollars to watch dispirited soldiers, restricted to the post for some minor infraction or other and pressed into service, wash her car. Often, it was more of a social gathering for the officer's wives. Here also was the company First Sergeant, observing the punishment detail prior to delving into his soldier's private lives with MPs in tow (a Health and Welfare inspection consists of MPs with dogs searching for firearms, drugs, alcohol, et cetera in the barracks).

Sandy marched Rey over to the First Sergeant. She'd only seen the man a few times at early Formation before her assignment to the Nighthawk platoon, and she owned a healthy fear of the man. With Rey at her side, however, she was confident she'd be listened to and taken seriously. Still, she wasn't about to call the man "Top", guessing that familiarity would place her beside the other privates washing cars the next weekend. Sandy waded in before she second-guessed herself and had Rey talk to him instead. "First Sergeant, a moment, please."

First Sergeant Davis turned. Five foot eleven, and seemingly hard as nails, he looked impassively at Sandy through nearly colorless blue eyes in a weathered face under close-cropped blond hair, then gave Munoz an appraisal. It came to Sandy that she was not a threat in the First Sergeant's estimation, but Munoz could be. The realization made her slightly angry.

"What is it?" he asked Munoz.

Aware Munoz turned toward her with an eyebrow raised, Sandy could not say when the icy calm she felt had descended upon her. "First Sergeant," she began, "Agent Munoz is Border Patrol, and I am on a detail with him to provide communications support for an operation they're conducting. The Border Patrol has levied us for telemetry radios and support for rigging their sensors to our radios. Today is the trial run, and the typical Government bureaucracy we have come to know and love has left Munoz and his partner without a pickup truck. To shorten the amount of time this will require, I will need a truck." Sandy stood at something resembling Parade Rest. Rey looked uncomfortable. She was left for a moment to wonder what her speech had bought her.

Rey Munoz spoke into the drawn silence. "First Sergeant, I'm responsible for the fuckup, I didn't think we'd need more space than my Crown Vic's trunk. The Specialist had an easy out to have an afternoon off duty at my expense, but she would rather conduct the operation."

Davis regarded the two of them with cool eyes. "Where are you setting up, Munoz?"

"About forty miles east of Benson."

"Why way out there?"

"It's an area we know well, and the terrain will funnel transients through a fairly narrow area. It's also pretty tame in the summer. If this works out, we'll ask you for more support in stepping up the operation at the border west of Nogales."

"That service piece you have, what caliber is it?"

Munoz blinked at the apparent non-sequitor. "Forty Smith."[3]

"Sparks, hold up your hand." She did so, palm facing the First Sergeant, wondering just what in hell the man was after. "Sparks, go draw a pickup truck from the Fifth's motor pool, building thirty-six, over on the West side of the post. If the motor sergeant or CQ there gives you flack, tell them it's for me. We'll get you licensed next week. Stop back at the Bravo Company armory, and draw an M9 and web belt and holster with two clips. If the armorer gives you shit for not being qualified with the M9 or not having a license, you tell him you are under verbal orders and to call the Company Commander. They'll get me on the horn, and I will fix that. Next week, you will be qualified with the weapon. Stop at Delta HQ and draw a gasoline card."

Sandy had never heard so many words from the man's mouth before. She realized she had one pickup truck and one 9mm pistol to go draw. "First Sergeant," now that she had what she wanted, it was time to speak more softly. "PFC Collins is on detail with me. A weapon for him, too?"

"Fuck it, too hard to swing, so not this time. But have him get qualified as well, and get a driver's license for him also". The military required military driver's licenses and certification for each type of vehicle driven.
Sandy came to something almost like attention, then she and Rey turned to leave. Rey was silent until they arrived at his car.

"Sandy, we just met. But Honey, you have the biggest set of balls of anyone I know."

Sandy was nonplussed. She'd gotten the pickup truck (white, two-wheel-drive, and with government license plates) and the "government charge card", a white plastic credit-card-thingy that was supposed to let her get gas, together with a form to fill out when she returned it itemizing her use of the card.

But she could not get the armorer for the company, a corporal, to come in to the HQ from his married quarters on the weekend. On the phone from the CQ's desk, she told him what the First Sergeant said, and was laughed at in response. "Yeah, Specialist, you just get him on the line and tell me, and I'll come issue a weapon."

Sandy wasn't about to run out of steam, but she had nowhere to direct it. Going back to the First Sergeant was the wrong thing to do, she knew. She'd been told to have the armorer call for the company commander (which would have the CQ page the First Sergeant on the weekend). She remembered he was not at his desk, conducting the Health and Welfare inspection this morning.

"Rey," Sandy said as she walked back out of the building with the Border Patrol agent matching her step, "How bad do I need a pistol anyway?"

Munoz didn't have a chance to answer, as Sandy spotted MSgt Brown across the parking lot. "Hey! Sergeant Brown!" Sandy's voice carried easily. The sudden shout startled Munoz more than a little.

As Brown started towards them, Rey answered, "I didn't think about it before, but it's a good idea. If we became separated, you could use it as a signal. Then there're snakes, and the odd Coyote."

"Coyotes are trouble?" Sandy asked. "They don't look so big..."

"The canine ones can be defensive if you threaten a mother's young, or they're hurt. But there's also the human ones, though it's unusual to see any traffickers in the desert itself." Rey was spared explaining, as they closed with MSgt Brown.

"Sergeant Brown, this is Agent Munoz of the US Border Patrol. Agent Munoz, Master Sergeant Brown." The two shook hands.

"Sergeant, I've got trouble. I had to talk to the First Sergeant earlier today to get a pickup truck, and he told me to draw a sidearm since we'll be out in the desert. The armorer won't come in on the weekend unless someone official calls him. I don't think he believes me."

MSgt Brown's eyes widened a little. For a few weeks, Sparks hadn't been fitting his image of a new soldier. Brown was afraid she would cause him trouble somehow. She sought out the First Sergeant to solve a problem? He flicked his eyes sideways to judge Munoz' reaction, and saw that the man simply watched him.

"Come on, I'll get you a weapon, and a couple of water cans. What the fuck, why not?"

As they followed, he asked Sandy for the details of the conversation with the First Sergeant. He grunted, unsurprised, when she mentioned she and Ben were to qualify with the M9 and be licensed for the pickup. He volunteered that the Deuce-and-a-half (the Army's six-wheel drive truck, rated for 2.5 tons payload) was probably a good one to get, too.

He led the way to the basement of the building, where he pulled a ring holding a large number of keys from his BDU pocket, hunted for one, then unlocked the Armory room. Once inside, he unlocked a smaller locker, and withdrew a rack of M9 pistols with a lockrod through the trigger guards. Unlocking that, he removed one M9. Hanging on a wall were shelves with web gear. He clipped a holster from another shelf to a web belt, and handed them to Sandy.

He then unlocked a different drawer, and extracted a cleaning kit. Sandy and Rey watched the operation in silence, then watched him relock everything. Humming, MSgt Brown then walked back to the desk under the Dutch door, and retrieved a logbook. He filled out a line in the book, then turned the book to Sandy, which she signed. He then picked up two clips from an ammunition cabinet. "Sparks. I am not going to sign you out any ammunition, it's a pain in the ass for partial cases. I will, however, tell you a few things."

"One, I don't think anyone should carry a weapon they're unfamiliar with. Two, if you ever fire this weapon, bring it back clean. Firing Uncle Sam's ammunition anywhere but on an approved training range during an approved training mission would probably be career-damaging, and would very likely see you in the stockade and Articled[4]. Actually shooting someone would be a Court."

He watched the blonde Specialist nod, probably a little uncertain now and no longer sure she wanted to carry this weapon.

"Three, nine-millimeter is easy to find at, say, K-Mart. And I'm not telling you to spend fifteen minutes learning how to load and fire this weapon with your own ammunition. The issue cleaning kit will be used before a dirty weapon is returned here to me Monday. But Hoppes Number Nine cleaning fluid is also available at K-Mart, and is one hundred thousand percent more effective than the issue crap in that kit. Four." He took a breath, deciding how to phrase his concern. "I don't know why Top's letting you drive the truck off post, that's nuts. Munoz, if you're out after eighteen hundred hours this afternoon, I want you to keep the truck and both soldiers overnight somewhere. I do not want them to drive off post after dark without licenses. Hell, they could go through a Border Patrol roadblock or some shit." Pleased at his humor, Brown laughed.

Munoz didn't, but he did look thoughtful.

Brown had Sandy and Rey follow him again, after locking the door, to sign for water cans and the toolkit Brown suggested they take as well.

Jorge and Ben passed the time bullshitting. Jorge regaled Ben with tales from the Border Patrol, and tried to steer the conversation away from opportunities for a young soldier to lie about his experiences.

Jorge won laughing agreement from Ben that the BDU uniform, designed as it was to break up a human silhouette in the field, was distinctly unflattering to the female form. Therefore, anyone who looked good in BDUs had to be fucking beautiful.

"Sparks, she looks good in her BDUs, don't she, man?"

Ben stopped laughing. "Yes. She does," he said in an uninflected tone.

Though he didn't give anything away in his expression, Jorge noted Collins' reaction.

11:15 Saturday, 11 May 1991
Hwy 80, between Sierra Vista and Douglas, AZ

The travel plan was Huachuca to Douglas, refuel and eat lunch, change drivers and passengers, then head out Hwy 80 towards the New Mexico border (which, Rey explained, divided the El Paso and the Tucson sectors of the border). Along the way, they would find one of the trails and roads that led out into the desert towards the southern end of Chiricahua National Monument. They would then set up the sensors in a picket line about a mile long and hope they could establish radio communications back to Huachuca.

Sandy didn't mention her doubts, or the questions she pondered. Why aren't we practicing on a field at Huachuca before heading out into the desert? Who is going to receive this telemetry?

The driving distance was about 60 miles each way, an hour or so, leaving them three hours of daylight before MSgt Brown's curfew to play with the equipment. Rey assured Sandy he expected failure the first attempt and planned to return to the picket line each day for a week. If the trial were successful, the Border Patrol would move the operation to a region known to have many illegals attempt to cross the desert.

While they loaded, Sandy left the pistol in the cab of the pickup she now drove. She hadn't missed the emphasis on how to return the weapon or who to return it to. She worried she lacked enough money to buy a box of ammunition. Rey left his car at the PX's parking lot and rode in the cab with her, while Ben opted for the air-conditioning and plush ride in Jorge's Crown Victoria.

Rey had her stop at the Kmart in Sierra Vista, and came out with a box of 50 CCI Blazer 9mm cartridges and a small Hoppes gun-cleaning kit. He tossed the cartridges onto the bench seat between them with a disgusted look on his face. "These are all I could get."

"What's wrong with them?"

"You can't reload them, they sometimes don't eject cleanly, and they have a tendency to foul the bore, the powder's dirty. Those cases are aluminum and they haven't gotten them dialed in yet in ten years of trying. But the bullets themselves are okay, they're Speers. They'll work for today, but if you ever need to shoot competitively, these suck."

Sandy had no idea there was so much behind a brand of ammunition. She sensed lawmen were particular about what they used and wondered aloud why soldiers, to her knowledge, weren't. Their conversation on firearms and the differences between peace officers and soldiers lasted all the way to Douglas.