NightHawk Crossing

Chapter 1

Slave Crossing

In her brief 16 years, Su Kim had never experienced terrain like this. The mountain trail was narrow and steep. So far, after two hours, it wound through one deep dry gully, up across the loose rock (scree) at the bottom of a cliff face and down through another gully. The guide, when he was preparing them for their trek, said it was a deer trail. He had also instructed the group to hold hands and walk carefully in single file following him. No lights were used. For her, the trail was hard to see and she felt through the motions of the girl in front, more than she saw the path. It took a little while for the followers to get their little bit of night vision as the moon was in its last quarter and many sections of the trail had been shadowed from the sparse moonlight. As it was, they could barely see. The guide was wearing a hat with large goggles, which he said were night vision goggles enabling him to see well in the dark.

He had assured them he had made the trek many times and never had any problems. He stated they were now in a desert, even though they were in the North West of America on the border of British Columbia, Canada and Washington, USA. He had lectured them on the night creatures, not to sit down or rest on rocks as rattlesnakes were both nocturnal and poisonous and there was also the possibility of poisonous black widow spiders that would be seeking their body heat. Cactus could also be a problem if stepped upon or brushed with their legs as they walked past. They were told not to make any noise even if bitten or punctured and to use hand signals by squeezing the hands of the persons in front and behind who would relay this to the guide at the head of the line and to the snake head leader bringing up the rear of the line. They would pause to rest for five minutes every thirty minutes and only when he signaled it. These would be times when he would go ahead to scout out the path. At the rest stops they could sip – only sip – from the two 500 ml bottles of water each carried in their backpacks. They must not leave any refuse, as they did not want people to detect them by following a trail of refuse.

Su Kim reflected on the journey so far. With the exception of the guide, the little group had been together since the snake head in Seoul, Korea assembled them. Su Kim was the third daughter of a poor family living in the slums near the East Gate market in Seoul. She realized she had no future there as she had little schooling and felt she was a burden to her parents. She could remain and help her family or she could seek greater opportunity. She missed her mother and father yet knew if she remained, she would see no better future than sewing garments at home on a piece rate basis that hardly bought food basics and paid the rent. No, the sewing contractors made sure they kept the profits and the individual contractors were pitted against each other keeping piece rates low in order to be competitive. She could get married but with such a low education and poor family, she would only expect to marry someone of similar background to her laborer father. She had willingly accepted the idea of going to America to become a hostess for a Korean restaurant. She was proud that the snakehead thought so highly of her beauty that he paid her father ten million Won for her. The snakehead had said it was the equivalent of about nine thousand U.S. Dollars.

She had marveled at the new casual clothes, toiletries and backpack he brought her for the journey and was excited to meet the other nineteen young women who were also going to America. Dressed in the same style and color sweatshirts and sweat pants with made in Korea athletic walking shoes, the group looked like a girl’s athletic team. She was pleased with the picture in her passport and had been impressed that the passport was made right in front of her at the print shop in one of the many streets of small print shops in the warren of East Gate. It had been most exciting learning how to behave like a tourist, what to expect on her first airplane ride and how to behave as the leader cleared them as a group through Customs and Immigration at YVR, Vancouver airport, claiming their baggage and moving as a group following the leader holding his tour flag toward their waiting tour bus.

She and the others had watched a video of girls playing volley ball and had been coached how to answer questions which may be expected from the immigration personnel concerning their team, the game and their abilities. The snakehead said he did not expect questions, as he would be handling everything explaining that they were all from the same school and really on a sightseeing holiday to explore the mountains of British Columbia and Alberta.

It was exciting to see such a clean and spacious city as the tour bus wound its way through Vancouver’s suburbs to the highway, which took them east on Highway One through rich farmland into the mountains. The tour bus climbed through rain forest which changed to high alpine forest with snow capped mountain peaks and eventually descended into a desert valley that the snakehead said was called the Similkameen which was a native Indian name. On the other side of the first set of mountains, the tour bus had stopped for dinner in Princeton. It was a small town at the bottom of a valley surrounded by hills with dry grasslands and pine trees. Su Kim saw her first real cowboys in Western hats and cowboy boots. The bus pulled into a large parking lot adjacent to a path with signage in English and Korean welcoming visitors to the Castle, a large building, which seemed to be a hotel, with beautifully landscaped gardens fronting a small river.

Two Korean women met the group on the steps of the entrance, welcomed them in Korean and escorted them to a private dining room where a large buffet of Korean foods was waiting. After dinner, the snakehead thanked them for making the journey so well so far and cautioned them that, although they were tired from the long flight and the bus ride, the most difficult part was now to come. They were going to enter America by crossing the border illegally and on foot. From now on, they could never tell anyone where they were from or how they had gotten into America. They were going to become aliens living in the United States and must always hide from the authorities.

After a bathroom break and the snakehead checking the health and athletic footwear of everyone, the group was escorted back to the bus. Twilight was falling. Su Kim marveled at the surrounding high mountains outlined by the last rays of the sun as darkness descended with the sun falling behind the Western ridge of mountains.

Their bus journey continued east following Highway 3 along the valley of the Similkameen for another couple of hours. Then they left the highway and headed south across flat farmland beside the river giving way to scrubby hills and they began climbing, on a steep and rugged gravel road, into a barren mountain pass. Turning and twisting. Climbing with the bus in low gear. The headlights of the bus reflected a narrow rough road. Eventually, the road ended at a rock face.

In darkness, at the end of the road, the bus dropped off its passengers, managed to see-saw a turn around with the help of the snakehead who guided the driver where to back up, then headed back the way it came. Waiting for the group was a young Asian man who spoke fluent Korean. He told them he was their crossing guide. He then lectured them on what to expect and how to behave. He told them that, with luck, they would be hiking for five to six hours then board another bus waiting for them in America.

Yes, Su Kim thought, it had been a long journey. So far. So fast. So much new to see for someone who spent her entire life in one of Seoul’s slums.

Thankfully, the night was warm. It was mid summer and, although temperature during the day had migrated from about 70 degrees on the Lower Mainland near Vancouver to 97 degrees Fahrenheit in Princeton, the evening was cooler now at about 70 degrees.

Single file, holding hands, the group had been walking now for a couple of hours. They had stopped a number of times for quick rests while the guide scouted ahead. So far, the journey had been uneventful. Although she found herself breathing hard at times, the path had been easy enough that no one had lost their footing and no one had signaled to stop for anything. Her legs were getting tired, she was thirsty and her feet a bit sore but she recognized she was on the downward slope, perhaps nearing their destination. She had noticed red flashing lights high up on the mountains both left and right of her they had left behind some time ago.

Now, her partner in front squeezed her hand twice signaling a rest stop and Su Kim did the same to the person behind her. They had come into a little gully with a sand and gravel bottom – probably a dry creek bed. With the faint moonlight, she could see the sides were close by and the walls didn’t go much higher than a few feet over her head. She crouched on her haunches, sipped a little water, relaxed and waited.

Suddenly from the rear, a bright white light was focused on them. Just as the guide sprang ahead in reaction to the light, another bright light was brought to bear on them from directly in front and another from above, on Su Kim’s right side of the gully.

Hold it! Came a voice from the front of the gully. The guide froze and slowly raised his hands.

Another voice from behind said: hands on your head and the snakehead slowly raised his hands to the top of his head.

This was followed about a minute later by the whump whump whump of a helicopter as it came from behind Kruger Mountain and lit up the scene with its night sun.

Someone spoke into a radio: Oroville Base, this is Border Patrol 5-6. We have located the aliens and are taking them into custody. I am trans ponding our location. You will see we are about a quarter mile north of the Loomis - Oroville road in table canyon wash.

5-6 this is base, we copy, out.

At each end of the gully, dressed in camouflage, wearing bulletproof vests and helmets with lanterns, two officers appear in the light. Officers with large police dogs take up positions blocking the exits at each end of the gully. The first officers begin working their way along the line of aliens, handcuffing each with plastic restraints, after a quick pat down for weapons. Finally, a rope is looped through the handcuffs linking the aliens together and the backpacks are searched.

Base, this 5-6. We have 2-2 in custody. I say again two two in custody.

5-6 this is base: We copy 2-2 in custody. Do you need extra transport?

Base, this is 5-6. Affirmative. We will meet you at the road. We will leave 2-7, 4-5 and K-9-3 to follow the trail back to the Border just in case others are around, but this looks like the batch. We have two zero females, all Asian, and two Asian males. No identifications.

Roger that. See you soon. Base out.

A small group of three uniformed officers, two male and one female are standing beside the dispatcher along the North wall section of the open office which serves as the radio room at Border Patrol base in Oroville, six miles South of the Oroville border crossing. Division Chief Roger Sanchez of the Border Patrol, with a huge smile showing under his jet-black mustache turns to Field Operations Supervisor Ken O’Brien:

Well Ken, looks as if our tipster earned herself $10,000 tonight.

I’ll say! Nice to see a tip work out. As most of the group is females, I’ll take Maryanne with me and we’ll take the larger passenger van to pick them up. Too many people for the Sheriff’s jail, so I better tell the guys up at the border crossing we will be bringing some guests. Wonder what nationality they are or if we can communicate much with English.

Sanchez said: Good idea taking them out to the crossing, maybe one of the crew there can help determine their nationality.

Border Patrol Agent Maryanne MacDonald spoke up: By the sound of it, I doubt if my Spanish or your French will help much. If they follow form, likely the men speak English but will keep silent. Any betting on what nationality?

O’Brien said: Well, the flavors of the day are Korean, Sri Lankan and Chinese – maybe East Indian. Anybody’s guess. We’ll soon see.

Roger Sanchez said: I had better alert the ops desk in Seattle and start making arrangements to transport them there after preliminary screening. They’ll probably send a bus for transport and maybe fly up a couple of interrogators who might pin down their language.

Sanchez turned back to Mary West, the dispatcher: Mary, It’s probably too much to expect we can apprehend their reception party. It’s likely they saw our activity on the road and took off. However, let’s alert the Oroville Sheriff, County and State police, also the Canadians at their border crossings and our own border crossing personnel to be on the lookout for suspicious busses and panel trucks – especially with Asian drivers. Request their patrols as far as 30 miles out to stop anything suspicious, which might hold 20 plus people. There is really little we can do to the drivers or seize the vehicles unless we were to have caught the aliens in the vehicles. However, it may be good to get some license plates and names to trace. You never know, but little leads may develop into bigger ones.

Roger Sanchez, a thirty-year veteran of the Border Patrol spent most of his time, twenty-three years, along the USA – Mexican border. He was posted to Oroville seven years ago and has been thoroughly enjoying it. An outdoors person with a family that enjoys farm life, he has a one hundred and fifty acre farm with fifty arable acres and lots of arid and rocky foothill on the East side of town. He claims working the land keeps his squat five foot eight inch, one hundred eighty pound weight lifter’s frame in great physical shape. His land, on a hillside along the Chesaw Road, affords a great view from his front window across to the town of Oroville nestled below tall foothills, and up Osoyoos Lake to the City of Osoyoos and its Western Ridge of mountains on the Canadian side of the border. From his master bedroom window, which faces North, he has a postcard view of Oroville’s Dorothy Scott airport, Eastlake road and the housing nestled on the American side of the 49th parallel, the East side of Osoyoos with the Indian vineyards and Anarchist Mountain with Highway 3 see-sawing its way up the southern face of it. Too bad the border wasn’t a touch south of the 49th parallel here, and then the Canadians would have been able to run their highway through the gentler slope at the base of the mountain and would have avoided all those hairpin curves. The southern view from his kitchen is equally grand showcasing the Okanagan valley’s southern side with the dry bare mountains contrasting with the occasional plateaus bearing large orchards irrigated from the Okanagan River. Closer in on the left side of the valley, one can barely make out the confluence where the Simalkameen river merges with the Okanagan river flowing out of Osoyoos lake.

Roger Sanchez and his wife, Maria, are looking forward to retiring on that property. His sector of the border is not a busy one. He feels he has a great staff and good relationships with the parallel agencies. He and his wife are well entrenched and thriving in the town. Their three children are now adults and college graduates making their own careers: one as a marine officer; one a dentist; and one a chiropractor. Life was good and retirement is on the horizon only a few years away.

Border Patrol base Oroville is housed in a crowded wooden framed building fronted by Highway 97 and adjoining 11th Avenue on its south side in the center of the little village off Oroville, just off the terminus of the rail yards and at the end of the main industrial section. The building is not large. It consists mainly of an open office layout with twelve desks spread about in three rows, plus the communications center in one corner. Along one wall is a series of four enclosed offices with windows facing into the open office. They are for the Division Chief, the Patrol Agent in Charge of the shift, a small interview room and a coffee room. Washrooms are located near the rear door. There are no cells as the Patrol has an arrangement with the local Sheriff to house prisoners or, if there is an overload, there are cells for thirty people at the border crossing, six miles away.

This night, O’Brien was the duty officer of the Alpha Team, the first of four shift rosters comprising eighteen officers. The station ran on a 48 in 8 basis with each team logging four twelve hour shifts in the span of eight days. The shifts rotate with each officer taking turns between day and night shifts on a monthly basis. Sanchez, as officer in charge of the detachment, floated as he sees fit between the shifts and depending on activities. The Division has one sub-detachment with twenty personnel on the East side of his district, at Frontier - Paterson crossing (seventy five miles East), which was also a border crossing open twenty-four hours. There are six crossings East of Oroville – up to the Idaho border – which comprise his Eastern district. Past Frontier - Paterson crossing, his district also includes Boundary - Waneta crossing and Mataline Falls – Nelway crossing, both daytime crossings with opening hours varying with the seasons. To the West, his territory is very mountainous, in the Coast-Cascade range beginning at Ross Lake in the West, just south of the Canadian city of Hope. Due to the rugged mountains, there is only one other crossing, Nighthawk, - Chopaka, about ten miles East of Oroville in the Similkameen valley where the Similkameen River enters the USA.

Habitually passing his right hand through his crew cut gray hair, Sanchez turned to Mary West, the dispatcher and said: Mary, call the patrols we have at each end of the Loomis – Oroville road between Nighthawk and Oroville and get them to stop and check anyone coming or going. We’re probably looking for an Asian or a couple of Asians in a van – but not necessarily. Anyway, they know the drill. Tell them to keep that up for the next few hours. Also, get some of the guys coming out of the gulch to interview the people in the nearby properties to see if they saw anything. There aren’t many properties along that canyon road. Maybe the caretaker at the golf course noticed something - I gather they had a party going on there this evening. Maybe someone noticed a vehicle or something turning up that old forestry fire access road. Then, send AirCon 17 south toward Loomis. They can work across to Riverside, then come back checking Highway 97 and the parallel roads from Tonasket into Oroville.

Will do. Should we divert AirCon 405 to check for movement on the roads to the East? Asked Mary.

AirCon 405, a fixed wing aircraft, a Cessna T182 Turbo Skylane, equipped with night vision (FLIR) forward looking infrared radar, was currently in the air with a two-person crew on patrol along the Eastern range of the border.

Where is it?

They checked in five minutes ago. They were passing Boundary - Wanela Crossing and will turn around at the Idaho border.

That puts them, what one hundred miles plus?

Radar shows them one hundred twenty three miles away right now.

That’s at least forty five minutes away.

That’s too far away to do any good for this situation. No, keep them on patrol. Also, keep the drone on its patrol, it should be just about at the West end of our region, right?

Let’s see. Mary looked up as a monitor that was a relay monitor from the drone control base tracing the path of the drone over a topographical map. Yep, just coming up to it’s turn around point at Ross Lake.

It would probably be back overhead in four hours. Drone Control was going to do a bit of a run down the Cascade trail tonight and meander over some of the valleys. On the other hand, AirCon 17 is closer and still has lots of fuel and there are not many roads to worry about. They can easily follow the southern road out of there out Nighthawk way for about twenty to thirty miles, maybe pull East checking the roads as far as Riverside. Also, no sense pulling in the patrols along the border East of here. I think we have enough resources on the West side to handle things. We can alert the local and state police about the activity to look for unusual traffic

Ok.

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Su Kim, after being escorted as a prisoner with the others down to the road and into the waiting border patrol bus, began to cry quietly. She felt she had disgraced her family and disappointed the snakehead. Not focusing on her surroundings, she gazed out the window through the heavy wire mesh of the prisoner transport van. What next? She wondered. She glanced across to the snakehead. He appeared calm and sullen. When he saw her looking toward him, he checked to make sure no guard was watching and motioned with his index finger to his lips reminding her to keep silent.

Chapter 2

Ambush

As he picked up the microphone of one of the tactical radios mounted under the center of the dashboard of the patrol truck, Harry Forsythe reflected on his good luck. He had joined the Border Patrol three years ago, just after graduating from college in Kentucky with a degree in Criminal Justice. He had been assigned to Oroville directly after training. Here he was, at age twenty-six, on a road running almost parallel to the USA / Canada border on a beautiful summer evening. At about thirty nine hundred feet, the elevation was a good three thousand feet above that of home base in Oroville, down in the Okanagan valley. Approaching midnight, the thermometer in the SUV registered an outside temperature of sixty-five degrees. The stars were out in their grandeur with just a sliver of remaining moon and no light reflecting off a city to interfere. With his side window down, he could smell the pine, spruce and fir trees. Beautiful. Nice to be up here in the alpine forest cruising along a good road with no traffic.

Harry was of sturdy build, reflecting his love for weight lifting and swimming which had earned him letters and a scholarship to college. He was a natural blonde, reflecting his mother’s Dutch heritage. He was six foot tall, one hundred eighty pounds and all muscle. He and his wife, Jenny, and little Sammy, age two, had taken to the relaxed country life. Marveling at the low property prices, with the help of his parents contributing toward the down payment, they had bought a small acreage along O’Neil road just south of Oroville parallel to Highway 97. The ten acres boasted a mid seventies three bedroom one floor house, a barn and horse paddock and eight acres of Fuji apples. They leased the orchard to a local farmer and were pleased this revenue paid the taxes and a fair bit toward the mortgage payments.

Thank god he didn’t get posted to the Mexican border! This was paradise! Where else could you enjoy bountiful sunshine, the variety of activities afforded by four full seasons – from swimming and boating on the very warm Lake Osoyoos to fly fishing and camping in the many lakes and streams, hunting, snowmobiling and cross-country skiing. If they wanted to shop in a bigger town, Omak was just 45 minutes away and Wenatchee was farther down the Okanagan valley on the Columbia River two hours away. Or, they can always go a few hours drive east to the big city of Spokane. If they wanted a fancy dinner, there was the Canadian city of Osoyoos, just across the border, much larger, crowded with tourists in summer, stronger beer and far more expensive everything than little Oroville.

Tonight, Harry was partnered with John Russel, a long-time hand in the Border Patrol boasting twenty-nine years service during which he had served in postings in San Diego, Brownsville, Texas, Yuma, Arizona and Skagway, Alaska. With a little paunch beginning to show on his sturdy fifty three year old, five foot eleven inch one hundred seventy pound frame and with swept back stringy white hair reflecting the need for a long overdue haircut, Harry had the weathered look of a man who had been in too cold weather and smoked too much. Under peer pressure from his fellow officers, he had stopped smoking when he was transferred to Oroville five years ago. Interesting, he had noted, how people smoked more in some parts of the country. Here though, it was fast becoming unpopular. Even the teens shunned it - except for smoking joints.

John was happily married to Alison, whom he had met and wed during his first posting in San Diego. She was an all-California girl who had born him three wonderful children: Max, age twenty; Cindy, age eighteen; and Harry Junior, age fifteen. Like him, she considered this posting paradise. They were well imbedded in the social life of Oroville as members of the Lutheran congregation, the golf club, the Kiwanis and one of the fraternal orders. Like Harry and Jenny, they had a hobby farm of twenty-one acres and a soft spot for horses which had resulted in the farm planted in grass to supply feed to four cast-away horses: a mare and three geldings; and they earned rent from keeping eight mounts of the border patrol. Horses and trail riding were their passion.

Harry and John were riding in the standard issue four-door four-wheel drive SUV. It was well equipped for their purposes with a police computer for license checks, automatic license plate reader, five radios enabling contact with base, air patrol and their Canadian counterparts, and a satellite transponder / phone which was constantly tracking the vehicle and showing on the GPS monitor at home base. Standard equipment included hiking and mountaineering gear, a winter survival kit with emergency blankets, water and rations, bolt cutters, a tool kit, fire extinguisher, flares, tow rope, come-along hand winch, level III first aid kit (for first responders), a seven shot twelve gauge shotgun, an M16 combat rifle with night scope, sledge hammer and a battering ram and night vision goggles. As well, they wore personal gear which included, in addition to upper body bullet proof vest, a 9 millimeter Glock pistol, two way radio with base and six tactical frequencies, a cell phone, flash light, snake bite kit, emergency first aid kit, pepper spray, a tazer, one pair of metal police handcuffs and a half dozen plastic handcuff ties. Both had tossed their Kevlar helmets equipped with LED headlamps into the back seat.

Their assignment was to be first of a series of four patrols that shift beginning with separate teams three hours apart to cover a seventy-mile section of the border. They would patrol a stretch of roads running up to and parallel to the border beginning at Lake Osoyoos on the West side to the Ferry - Midway Border crossing at their eastern turn around point seventy odd miles to the east. The area varied in terrain from sharp, craggy mountains to rolling grassland foothills. The sector had been uneventful for months. However, periodically there had been the occasional deer, coyotes, wild dogs, stray cattle or bear crossing the border setting off sensors necessitating a team being dispatched to investigate.

Harry pushed the talk button on the mike: Oroville Base, this is Patrol Alpha East Zone One over.

Patrol Alpha East Zone One, go ahead. Over.

Oroville base, Patrol Alpha East Zone One on Chesaw Road Eastbound passing Fields Road junction. S.Q. Out.

Alpha East Zone. Base copy S.Q. Out

Mary West, the radio operator duly noted the radio contact with Patrol Alpha east Zone One in her hard copy logbook. She recorded the time and S.Q. meaning all quiet in that sector. The log book was a throw back to days before the automated recording of the transmission and continuous broadcasting of their GPS position but it came in handy when one wanted a quick glance at status of the patrols and a quick reminder when patrols were due to check in – in this case, every twenty minutes was the norm.

Hanging up the mike, Harry commented to John: looks as if all the activity is on the West side of the lake tonight.

Harry, my friend, when was the last time there was some action in this sector?

I guess it had to be, what, about three months ago when that drunk got pissed off that the Ferry - Midway crossing was closed at night and he ran through the barrier?

John said: Yeah. Big deal. The County Sheriff’s officer caught him after he had pulled off at that Mile 320 lookout about 7 miles south of Ferry – you know, just before Curlew. He was sleeping like a baby.

That’s what I like about this posting. Mainly quiet.

Right, real quiet but the occasional thing to justify our existence. Thinking of that, did you hear the scuttlebutt that there may be a reduction of personnel in this sector?

What?

Yeah. I was talking to Marjorie Pearson who’s on agricultural inspection at Osoyoos crossing.

I know Marjorie. Said Harry. Good golfer. What’d she say?

Just that there’s a rumor that twenty of the crossing crew will be reassigned to the Mexican border.

I guess I can see that. Oroville were supplemented with thirty people two years ago yet traffic at the crossing hasn’t really increased. We may get a reduction too

Yeah, I gather there’s a lot of make-work going on at the Oroville crossing. Marjorie was telling me about one of her new guys getting over zealous. He inspected a fifth wheel trailer of a retired Canadian couple – you know, snowbirds - on their way to Arizona for the winter. He found a bit if a rotten old potato, a potato peel actually, in the back under the sink in the trailer beside the garbage can. He fined them $160. It turns out the husband is a retired Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer – you know, RCMP. Anyway, he complained to the Superintendent but got nowhere. Yet the superintendent-George – took Marjorie’s guy aside for a little talk telling him how lucky he should be to be posted to this paradise and all that.

Who was it?

Doesn’t matter. He was so gung-ho, he wanted to be where the action is and George gladly transferred him to Detroit.

Ha! Transferred either to the Ambassador Bridge or the Detroit-Windsor crossing no doubt? Serves the ass-hole right! Both the Tunnel and the Bridge are probably the most hectic on this border. And what about the living conditions? It can be dangerous just getting to and from work.

Since they left base in Oroville, their path began easterly with the Chesaw road, ascending from the desert floor of the Okanagan valley into foot hills where the irrigated orchards yielded to sparse pine trees and grassland too high and arid to cultivate and transitioning at even higher elevations into steeper, mountainous terrain and dense fir and spruce forest. They had deviated off the Chesaw road onto Nine Mile road which ran close to the border, then through the old mining town and former rail stop of Molson, where they stopped for coffee, resuming their patrol along and backtracking on lanes and byways that led north toward the border then returning eastward along the Chesaw road. Currently, they were eight miles below the border on the Chesaw Road weaving their way around Strawberry Mountain descending toward Chesaw about five miles away. In Chesaw, they planned to follow the valley north toward the border again.

John, driving the SUV, had slowed to make a 20 MPH curve where the road clung to the steep hillside. He knew the metal and concrete barrier was an attempt to prevent cars from a sharp drop about three hundred feet to a streambed that was probably dried up to a mere trickle at this time of year. The protective barrier showed many scrapes and colors of paint scrapings from vehicles that had failed to heed the posted reduce speed sign. As they pulled out of the curve, the SUV’s headlights panned across a lane and to the dense forest bracketing it.

Just then Harry shouted: Hold it! I just caught glint of something down that lane we went by. Maybe we should check it out.

OK.

John slowed the SUV, made a U turn, turning off the lights in the process, and then crept back to the lane. John braked with the emergency foot brake so as not to show taillights and turned slowly into the lane. He then switched on the headlights which illuminated the rear of a trailer about two hundred feet ahead parked in a pull-off at the side of the road.

What’s that up ahead?

John switched on the six auxiliary off-road lights that were lined up on the front bar of the roof rack. With over six million combined candlepower, the road ahead and the trees beside were illuminated as bright as day.

Looks like a toy hauler type fifth wheel trailer with its garage ramp down. You know, like Bob Sweeny has? The type, so big, you can store a couple of quads or motorcycles in their own garage? He’s got his loading ramp to the toy box" down.

Yeah. Is that a guy standing beside the ramp?

I’ll flick on our emergency lights. We can stop for a little chat. Do you see the license plate?

Barely. Oh yeah, I see it to the left of the ramp. A Utah plate? He’s quite a ways from home. I’ll run a make. While John kept an eye on the man, the trailer, and the bush beside it, he also took quick glances to the left and right sides of their vehicle and into the rear view mirrors but saw no movement. Harry quickly typed the plate number into the computer. It came back with ownership to a Mr. Westley Miller, Provost, Utah.

Westley Miller, Provost Utah. No wants or warrants. Let’s call it in and check him out.

Harry reached for and keyed the mike: Oroville base this is Patrol Alpha East Zone One. Over.

Alpha East Zone One. Base. Go ahead.

Base, Alpha East Zone One. We are exiting to check out a recreational trailer parked in Theo lane. Out.

Alpha East Zone One. Base. Roger that, Theo Lane. Out. Mary dutifully recorded the transmission into the log at 11:33 pm.

Donning their helmets as they got out of the SUV, John put his right hand on his pistol butt and veered slightly left, as trained, knowing that Harry had his six (backside) covered and had similarly veered right which gave him more of a sightline down the right side of the trailer. Harry had his hand on his gun butt still in its holster but had unsnapped the restraining strap on it. John approached the man who was standing by the trailer ramp on the roadside.

Evening sir. Why are you stopped on this road? Do you have a problem?

Hello officer. Way out here, I didn’t expect to run into the police at this time of night. I’ve run out of diesel fuel. I under estimated the fuel consumption in these hills. Thought I could squeeze another fifteen miles out of it to get me to the next station.

Is this your vehicle? May I see your driver’s license please?

Yes. Sure. Westley Miller slowly reached into his right side back pocket, pulled out his wallet, produced his driver’s license and handed it to John.

Westley Miller, Provost Utah?

Yes sir.

John handed back the license and asked: Mr. Miller, are you alone?

I have my son with me but he’s taken the quad to get fuel.

Which way did he head?

Toward Chesaw. We passed a station that was closed down in Chesaw about five miles back. He felt maybe he could wake someone and get some fuel. Otherwise, he’ll come back here to bed down for the night then try again in the morning

Ok. Mr. Miller, just as a precaution, my partner is going to go to the front of your rig and check out your vehicle. Now, you assure me there is no one else around or in it?

Correct sir.

As John nods to Harry, Harry proceeds down the right side of the trailer checking to see the trailer door is locked and then, using his flashlight extended arm length out to his left side, moves forward to the rear right side shining his light through the back window of the truck. He notes the truck is a fairly recent Dodge Ram 4 door, 4 wheel drive 3500 HD with duals – double rear wheels. He also notes the trailer hitch sitting square over the rear axle. He sees nothing unusual in the back or front seats or cargo bed of the truck – he thinks pretty neat actually. He then walks back to assume his position beside the SUV.

Clean.

OK Mr. Miller, we can put you in touch with a tow company than can bring some fuel out if you want but it would be about an hour’s run for them.

No, that would likely cost a fortune and I don’t know if my son has had any luck. Thanks anyway, though. We can just bed down in the rig and wait for morning if we need to.

OK. We’ll advise base to have the following patrols aware of your situation. This is a quiet lane with room to pass you and not much traffic. The nearest house is about two miles further over the hill. I doubt if there will be any traffic overnight. I see no problem with you spending the night camped here if you have to. We’ll be on our way.

Thanks, Officer.

As John was walking back to the SUV, Harry remained in his position watching Mr. Miller. Just as John was opening his driver’s door, the whup whup whup of a helicopter’s rotors could be heard. Both men paused to listen. It was coming closer and in low. John looked up searching for navigation lights of the helicopter but could see none.

Harry, that can’t be ours. When we were briefed, the chopper was supposed to be working West Zone One tonight. Didn’t the scanner pick up Dispatch assigning AirCon 17 to search south of NightHawk crossing to look for a possible transport for the aliens?

Yeah. And we’re too far across the border for a Canadian helicopter. We’re about eight miles south of it. No lights. It’s coming closer and lower.

I smell a rat. Let’s talk to Mr. Miller again. Call it in.

Harry was reaching toward his left lapel for the mike on his portable radio when he suddenly lurched forward and to his left. He let out a gasp as he hit the side of the SUV and crumpled to the ground.

John’s reaction was slowed for a second watching Harry’s movement but his training kicked in and he crouched while turning left to face the trailer and drawing his Glock pistol. He was a little slow drawing his gun as the tie down strap was still in place – unlike Harry who had undone the strap while guarding John’s six. Halfway into the crouch, John was hit in the chest with a force so powerful as to knock him backward and take his breath away. His gun was half out of the holster but flung out of his hand as the momentum of the force sent him sprawling backwards.

John lay on the ground thinking: I’m hit! I’m hit in the chest. It hurts like hell but I must still be alive. I’m conscious. I can hear footsteps.

A man appeared out of the shadows on the right side of the road walking toward the SUV. He was carrying a pistol with a silencer and a rifle. He shouldered the