Chapter 23

The desert, Nevada – Area 62

2400 hours. Air Force Sergeant Paul "The Swede" Ryerhold sat up straighter in his command pilot's chair. He was flying a drone on a routine training mission over south New Mexico. The ostensible purpose of the mission was to help the Border Patrol keep America safe from dangerous immigrants crossing over from Mexico. 'Dangerous immigrants' like his own great-grandparents who had jumped ship, from Sweeden, in New York harbor before World War I, and swam to New Jersey. The real reason was that he needed more training on night missions with the Predator.

He set aside the joystick that controlled the drone and started pounding on his keyboard.

"SIR!" he called out to the officer who was supervising the five drone pilots who were on duty tonight. There were thirty stations in all but there wasn't that much action tonight. It was daylight in Afghanistan, usually not the best time for drone assaults in that part of the world.

"Sir, she's gone." More hitting of the keys; they were rapid, almost panicky, and getting louder as The Swede was hitting them harder.

He was looking at the telemetry from the drone: it was a blank screen. He checked the location parameters: just bunch of zeros.

"Easy, Swede, easy," Lieutenant George Robinson said. "Don't break the keyboard. It's probably a temporary telemetry glitch. But I'll notify command, just in case."

Robinson walked over to the command desk and picked up a blue telephone. The red phone connected him to some very high level people in Washington, and this didn't warrant that level of attention. To tell the truth, Robinson didn't want that level of attention either. The blue phone jangled a corresponding unit at Area 62 HQ.

"Yes?" said the duty officer in HQ. "What is it, Robinson?"

"We just lost all telemetry on drone TM615. Probably a temporary thing. It's still out, though."

"A TM went black? That's just a training mission. Okay, let me know if it isn't back in ten minutes."

Robinson hung up, and went back to The Swede's station, taking over the keyboard. He reset the local workstation. He issued a command to reload the drone's software from the onboard SSM – the Solid State Memory. The telemetry was still blank.

"I'd kick it, if I could reach it," said The Swede.

"Yup, the damn thing's down, probably."

Robinson sighed quietly, and picked up the blue phone again. "Still down, sir," he said when it was answered.

There was a sigh at the other end of the connection as well. "Red phone, then."

Both officers in Area 62 picked up the red phone. It was answered immediately by the duty officer at the Pentagon, an Army Captain named Carol Traynor.

"Yes?" she said.

"This is Area 62. We've lost telemetry on drone TM 615, ma'am," said Robinson. "Over the Whitewater Mountains, ma'am."

"Whitewater? There's no mountains in Afghanistan named Whitewater," said Traynor.

"No, ma'am. They're in southern New Mexico. The drone was on a training mission. NHA, ma'am." NHA meant No Hostile Action, meaning it wasn't shot down, just 'lost.'

Still, this meant that SecAF, the Secretary of the Air Force, needed to be told. He wanted to be told of every missing or downed drone. That was because the President wanted to be told.

She sighed quietly, then said, "Hold one, Area 62."

Traynor buzzed and had her aide get General MacElroy, the chief of Air Force operations, and the SecAF on the line. A few minutes later and those two worthies were connected as well. Robinson gave his one line update. He noted that there had been no change since the drone was lost at 2400. It was now 0022, Nevada time – 0322 in Washington. Emergencies never seemed to happen during the daylight hours, in Washington, D.C.

"I'll tell the President. At least he's already on the West Coast so it won't be the middle of the night for him," said the SecAF.

This was already much too much attention from 'higher ups' as far as Lt. Robinson was concerned. It was just a training mission.

SecAF clicked the mute button on the Area 62 call, and picked up the direct line to the President's office.

"He's having chicken and biscuits with the Democrats in Spokane," said the President's Security Officer. "I'll see if he wants to be interrupted."

"It's not an emergency," said the SecAF, "but he wanted to be kept in the loop."

It was 0050, Nevada time, when the President came to the phone.

El Paso International Airport

0015, Nevada time.

Arvin "Butch" LaSalle was on final approach to El Paso International. He expected no trouble, since he'd radioed ahead for a pair of army ambulances and a security squad from nearby Fort Bliss. The girls, sleeping in the back, would make it to the William Beaumont Army Medical Center without any difficulty. He had the word of Captain MaryJane Rosemont, who was his sister-in-law, and who, by coincidence was in charge of Military Police at the Fort.

Meanwhile, Butch was working on a cover story that would explain the d.b.s also in the back of the plane. And for that matter, a cover story for the plane itself. He was fairly sure that the Beechcraft that belonged to the Border Patrol would be found in an isolated place, but would be in one piece. He wondered for the millionth time about the identity of the SpecOps sniper who'd presented him with this prize, and decided, also for the millionth time, that he didn't want to know.

The connection with Peter Soaring Eagle, his half-brother on his father's side, was solid enough. Gloria LaSalle, Butch's mother, was a convenience store clerk who had dallied with his, and Pete's, father in Louisiana, back in the day. They didn't even know about each other – probably the only two Navajo-Creole people in New Mexico -- until the old man died. They maintained a casual connection, until Pete had called to ask for a special favor. If Pete said the deal was kosher, that would have to do. It sure seemed to be kosher enough, if highly unusual.

He smiled to himself. The old boy network – or in this case, the old boy / girl network – of family members was better than a hundred introductions to people you didn't know. The country song came to his mind: 'I've got friends in low places... '

He'd also radioed ahead to the DEA. They were going to meet him at the hangar, after he unloaded the girls at the end of the runway. No sense involving DEA in the girls' situation. He trusted the DEA, but then again, there were a lot of undercover agents whose connection to the Mexican cartels was close – to his mind, uncomfortably close sometimes. The Army could keep its mouth shut, the DEA, he was not as sure of. Best not to place temptation in their paths.

The three girls were evaluated at the Medical Center, and eventually taken off the IVs that provided them with nourishment and sedatives. They woke up with enormous headaches, wanting to know what happened to them. Their parents were called, and flown in, in the days that followed. They'd be okay once they got reoriented and home.

The fourth girl, the one who had been shackled to the bed, naked and drugged, was a different case. She was so badly hooked on various drugs that she couldn't cooperate with her interlocutors. Perhaps it was Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps a function of the drugs. A physical evaluation showed she had had at least one abortion, which she didn't even remember. Her fingerprints revealed that she was a missing student from the University of Vancouver, and came from a small town in southwest Canada. Her recovery was likely to be prolonged.