At the Gates of Walhalla

1

Kurt Sorensen was out in the hot August El Paso sun, giving his service vehicle a well needed wash in his driveway. The dust from the gravel back roads he patrolled as a United States Border Patrol Officer in the days prior was unmerciful. It found openings and crevices on the vehicle Kurt never knew existed. Guadalupe, his wife, came bounding out of the house, twin boys on each side. She was a lovely, brown eyed woman with short brown hair. Born in Mexico, she had made her way to El Paso, studied in nursing and found herself a career here. She was a few years younger than Kurt, and a definite contrast in complexion to his pronounced Nordic features which obviously were predominant in both of the two fraternal twins’ appearances. One twin, Matthew, carried the same thinner nose, higher cheekbones, blond hair and blue eyes, but got his mother’s darker skin tone.

We’re headed across to do some shopping. She seat-belted the two young blond haired boys, Mark and Matthew, into the back of the four year old family Ford Taurus. You do realize what we’re shopping for? The boys will be turning eight this weekend.

Ahh, yes. Kurt got up to speed. Wow, I can’t believe where the time went. I can remember them walking their first steps like it was last month. Ummm, I don’t think you’re taking that car, Lupe. pointing to the flat tire on the driver’s side rear. You must have picked up a nail.

She came over to the other side to confirm the trouble. Oh, boy. Today is the only day I can spare doing these errands. Lupe looked at him sheepishly, and then glanced at his vehicle, an unmarked brand new 1986 Dodge Diplomat, an unusual departure from his regular Hummer he normally used.

Kurt assessed the situation with an understanding grin. How can I resist those eyes? Go ahead. I even cleaned it up for you.

‘Across’ meant a short drive to the border, paying 5 bucks to park and walking over the Paso Del Norte Bridge to Ciudad Juarez for shopping. For El Paso teenagers, it meant Friday nights meandering down Avenida Juarez to one of a multitude of clubs for music, dancing, cheap booze and fun. Today’s destination was the Mercado Juarez - the old market, for groceries. But today, Lupe’s shopping list was extensive, including two large and cumbersome piñatas, so she would need to drive across.

Can I get you anything? She asked, while transplanting the boys from one car to the other.

Surprise me. Kurt poked his head into the car and looked at the four bright blue eyes beaming back at him. You be good. Try not to wear your mom out. She’s busy today. Love you guys. Kurt stopped in at the driver’s door and gave Lupe a peck. Love you. See you later. Have fun.

Life was good for Kurt and Lupe and the boys. They had been married for ten years and were soul mates. Her gentle nature and calm demeanor were the perfect balance to Kurt’s sometimes black and white, ‘shoot ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out’ attitude so prevalent in law enforcement circles. Kurt wanted to rid the world of all drug smugglers and human traffickers. Hers was a more liberal, compassionate approach. Everyone had some redeeming qualities, and no one was beyond rehabilitation. Together they had built up a very comfortable living and enjoyed their suburban bliss. Most importantly, as a family, they enjoyed time spent together the most.

Kurt, an only child of a Norwegian-Canadian father and a mother who emigrated from Iceland to Texas, was proud of his background. He was intelligent, studious and well read on a plethora of matters, especially in his ‘Viking’ background and often joked how one could drift so far south off course. He was a dual citizen of both Canada and the United States by way of his parents’ marriage; his father and mother married and lived in Southern Manitoba for a few years until they both decided to head back south for a friendlier climate. The more important lure of course, was a well paying job for his father on a multi-year construction project in Houston. Before they moved, they had a son, Kurt. Now, at 41, Kurt had been a USBP officer for nearly twenty years, and was highly regarded.

Kurt fixed the nuisance flat tire, and then decided to take a brief respite from the noonday heat, and make a quick lunch, maybe take a nap. He had finished his last shift and had a few days off and he definitely needed some rest. He knew that Lupe and the boys would be gone for hours.

As soon as Kurt would start to walk, one would notice something unique in his gait. He had a pronounced limp. It wasn’t the feeble looking shuffle of an old arthritic man, but instead looked more like a manly John Wayne hobble. He favored a knee that took a bullet in a most heroic episode in his career. It was one that earned him the Newton-Azrak award for heroism, the top honor a USBP agent can be awarded. Also, he was decorated with the purple cross for being wounded. Finding an upside to it, he claimed he could predict rain earlier than the guys on TV could.

The incident occurred seven years earlier when the Japanese ambassador had come to the United States for consultation and discussion of that country’s continuously changing border relationship with Russia. During that visit, the delegate visited the Japanese consulate in Houston, and conducted a low-key tour along the Mexican-American border. On that particular day, agents were showing a recently discovered smugglers staging area, however due to miscommunication no one had marked it or cleared it for safety. A surprise gunfight erupted when a nest of heavily armed drug smugglers were surprised. Kurt had been in attendance more for information and historical input, not so much security. Automatic weapon fire overwhelmed the small dignitary group. Kurt and two other agents held off the insurgents with only their .40 cal handguns until the backup they radioed for arrived, but not before Kurt had stepped in front of the ambassador to shield him and was struck with a bullet from an AK-47. Eventually the bandits were overpowered by support from the helicopter and killed. But Kurt had likely saved the ambassador’s life.

Kurt was one of three recipients of the award, but for his heroism Kurt was additionally presented with a wakizashi, a small, side sword carried by Samurai in addition to their popular longer Katana swords made popular by movies. When paired together with a katana, the set is known as a daisho, something reserved only for those in the Samurai class. This was an incredible honor. The wakizashi was essentially a shorter version of the longer sword. Its blade was 18 inches in length. While known in popular culture as the implement used for seppuku, or suicide, the wakizashi had an equally important, utilitarian role. It was used to behead enemies once defeated; the katana was too long to swing in close quarters, and the smaller side sword was perfect for the task. And, it was incredibly sharp. The wakizashi in skilled hands could easily slice through a six inch thick bamboo pole with one pass. Kurt, the reluctant hero, accepted the beautiful presentation case on behalf of the USBP; he made honorable reference to the two Patrol Inspectors, Theodore L. Newton Jr. and George F. Azrak who were killed in the line of duty back in the late sixties, and after whom the award was named.

Kurt made himself a sandwich and then took his well deserved nap.

________________

Lupe , Matthew and Mark approached the market and as soon as they waltzed in, they were completely immersed in Mariachi music, a steady hum of busy shoppers, colorful banners and signs, and a variety of enticing smells of spicy dishes wafting around them. The gigantic space was bathed in a combination of fluorescent and sky light. This was the old market, alive and buzzing with activity like a hive of human bees.

The threesome got to business, pulling in three different directions thanks to the exuberant counterweights on either hand. But Lupe managed in her quiet, steady way, always able to stay the course. Two hours later, their hands were full, patience was thin and tummies were growling. They grabbed some fare from one of the countless vendors and sat down for a quick bite. About fifteen minutes later, Lupe looked at her watch and winced at the thought of fighting the afternoon traffic rush on the way back. It was time to get going.

They made their way to the car a block away and packed the trunk with their booty. Lupe headed back up Quintana Roo to Ave. 16 de Septiembre and got back into the thick of the traffic. The route was always the same, four blocks or so to Francisco Villa and north to the border. The stifling heat reminded her to switch on the air conditioning. She was also thankful for the bonus perk of this alternate vehicle, heavily tinted windows to keep out the sun. I hope the drive back and the wait at the border will be quick, she thought. It didn’t take long for the twins to fall asleep and it gave her a moment to collect her thoughts with nothing but the steady blast of cool air filling the car’s interior.

As traffic rolled along in fits and starts, she noticed an unusual sight - two larger men on a smaller motocross dirt bike directly in the lane to her right. They both wore sunglasses and had bandannas covering the bottom half of their faces. They looked straight ahead. As she panned left, she saw exactly the same sight, two men on a bike, with masks. While not a first, it was still a visual she found a little unnerving, having these four thugs right alongside her. She slowed a little to let her impromptu motorcycle escort get ahead and hopefully out of sight.

With one block left to go, Lupe slowly tried to make her way to the far right lane. However the thugs reappeared and were not allowing her to move. As they came up to Ave. Lerdo, the light turned red, and Lupe was starting to get very uneasy. The bike on the left side suddenly popped into view again. Before the light changed, both groups turned their attention to the vehicle they had corralled. In an instant, they withdrew small automatic weapons and began to strafe the vehicle with large caliber ammunition. Lupe and the now woken boys were startled by hundreds of rapid fire explosions, loud pops and cracks, sending bits of exploding glass raining down into the interior. The vehicle, still in gear, blindly rolled into the intersection and was promptly T-boned with a dull metallic thud by an oncoming sedan. The aftermath left two spun-around vehicles, one hissing from the radiator. The four shooters took off in a noisy, high-revving cloud of smoky exhaust. They were gone in seconds.

Onlooking pedestrians were stunned into frozen fear, and it took a few long moments for the first to wake up and run into the melee to assist. Soon, others joined motorists who were shouting for help. Within a couple of minutes, an ambulance could be heard wailing away in the distance and coming closer. Shortly after, a few turned into many. The few onlookers had turned into a frenzied, helpless swarm.

The first paramedics on the scene were met with a horrific sight. Once they cleared away all the unnecessary gawkers, they caught sight of the vehicle’s interior. It was deathly quiet, but a few stifled moans could be heard. The inside of the windshield looked like a bloody, pebbled shower door with at least two dozen holes in it. One rear door had its latch blown apart and hung open, and attendees grimaced at what they saw. Witnesses speaking to police could only say that it happened so quickly, and that no one could identify the assailants. Police roped off the intersection and traffic was snarled for blocks in every direction. This was an unbelievably brazen act carried out in broad daylight. This border town was not used to seeing this type of violence and the question, ‘why?’ was on its collective mind.

The victims were whisked to the nearest hospital and Kurt was rousted from his midday sleep. What had started as a fun day trip had ended abruptly in the unimaginable.

2

Kurt could hear his sneakers squeaking down the marble hallway to the post-op unit at Medico Juarez, the hospital closest to the accident site. Kurt found his way to a set of chairs just outside and slumped into it, mentally exhausted. He felt sick to his stomach, and all knotted up with tension. It was six o’clock when he looked down at his watch, and he was warmly reminiscent of where he got the timepiece. Lupe had given it to him as a wedding present. He had been so in love with it, a Speedmaster Professional Automatic, similar to the ones NASA had purchased for the astronauts. He remembered how thoughtful she was in getting him that, because it wasn’t cheap, and they were just starting out. But she knew how crazy he was about it. He was no more frugal in his gift to her, an exquisite opal ring surrounded by tiny diamonds. She loved it and swore she would never take it off. Kurt warmed himself with beautiful thoughts of their early days, their shared dreams of a bright future.

Kurt went back to when they first met. It comforted him to re-experience the early stirrings of love between them. It was during the time he had briefly been hospitalized for his shot-out knee. Lupe was working on staff at the hospital he and others had been taken to after the incident. Kurt was quickly enamored with this striking Latino woman. He loved her caring, pleasant way. She was impressed with his engaging sense of humour. She also admired this strong, heroic figure she felt fortunate enough to help bring back to health. It didn’t take long for them to realize there was more to their conversations than good natured chat during her rounds. They soon discovered they were with the one that each was destined to be with. Their lives were simple and full of hope. It was all ahead of them. Distant, beautiful memories age well with the pretty patina of time. Kurt enjoyed reliving that opening chapter in their story often.

Right now Kurt would trade places with her in a second, willing to take any pain so she wouldn’t have to. His heart ached at what the boys were going through. They were likely scared out of their minds, and he looked forward to at least being there to console them and promise them anything in the world as soon as they got out. He checked his watch again. Almost four hours had passed. Kurt was beyond anxious; all he’d gotten out of the nurses was that he could talk to the doctor after he got out of surgery.

Finally Kurt heard some activity inside the room on the other side of the door. A doctor emerged, obviously fresh out of surgery.

"Are you the husband… Señor …?

Kurt stood up to meet him. Sorensen…yes, I’m the husband and father. So what happened? Are they going to be alright? Kurt asked frantically.

They sustained very severe injuries. They were mostly bullet wounds, some fractures and lacerations from the impact.

"What?!! Bullet wounds?! What the hell happened?!!

They were involved in a vehicle accident. I don’t have any other information. You’ll have to take that up with the Policía, I’m afraid.

But they’re going to be OK, right?

The doctor paused to find a way to say what he had been trained to say, but struggled with on each occasion. He shook his head. The damage was too extensive. They succumbed to their injuries. I’m sorry, but they’re deceased. We did everything we could.

Kurt felt a shock wave blast through his insides. His mind thought a hundred simultaneous thoughts, but no words came out. In an instant he felt like the loneliest man in the world. He fell back into his chair, confused and weak.

Finally, he blurted, Oh God, what am I gonna do? I can’t believe this!

The doctor produced a new brown bag containing the personal effects. "This is what we could salvage from both of them.

What do you mean both? There were three of them! What happened to the other boy?!! What happened to my other son?!!

The doctor looked at Kurt in shocked disbelief. He did not respond, but the look on his face told Kurt that the police would be the ones to speak to.

I’m just going to need a minute, here, Doc. Kurt was welded to his chair and wondered if he would ever get up. He felt like he weighed 500 pounds.

Of course, I understand. Again, you have my condolences. With that he turned to leave.

Kurt mustered enough strength to get out another sentence. Doctor…thank you. I know you did the best you could.

Now on top of the crushing news, he would have to replay the chilling thought of his missing son in his mind until he could speak to someone in the know. Maybe he went to another hospital, yes that must be it, he thought. That often happens in bigger accidents…not enough room here, so take them somewhere else. I have to talk to the police, now.

But Kurt couldn’t move. He rested a moment before trying to get out of the chair to head for the police station. Usually a logical thinker, Kurt finally felt some emotions filter into the situation. How could anything like this happen? What’s behind this? Why me? Then he abruptly turned away from his own misery and back to the missing boy. He let his head hang down, and began sobbing. He was overcome by all the forces working at him from all sides. In an instant, his life had been turned inside out. He was now alone in the world. His parents had died a few years back, and now this. What had he done to deserve this? he asked himself. Kurt took some replenishing breaths and noticed the floor below him. His tears had formed some large drops on the floor. He had never cried that like. He wondered momentarily if he could survive this sudden emotional maelstrom.

Kurt lifted his head to find two uniformed police officers hovering over him. They gave their sympathies, but did not have as many answers as Kurt had questions. They told him that it appeared to be a drive-by shooting, a random act, and that the accident took place directly after that. They told him they had already been in touch with the USBP and the vehicle would be towed back to El Paso to their compound, so he wouldn’t need to worry about it. They said they had the contents of the trunk in their patrol car. He could pick them up on the way out in the parking lot. The meeting with the police didn’t last as long as he hoped for. He was up against a brick wall of confusion and unknowing.

Kurt and the two officers headed down the hallway and to the hospital parking lot. Kurt was completely without sensation. The brightly colored wall hangings on the ward hallways placed there to be cheery and uplifting, seemed to mock him in his heartache. Outside, it had been raining lightly, but Kurt didn’t even feel the wetness. He was numb. The two officers told him they were investigating the case, and nothing further could be done this late in the evening. They politely suggested he go home and get some rest.

Kurt drove like a zombie back home. The wipers on his car looked like they were empathetically wiping tears that were raining on the windshield. He carried the bags through the front door and pulled himself together enough to put away the groceries. He put the two large, colorful piñatas into the living room. Surprisingly, they were intact.

There he sat, in the living room in the dark, with the two stuffed animals, a parrot and a bull staring back at him with frozen smiles and glassy eyes. Kurt knew which boy had picked which. Here he would spend his endless night.

3

The upstairs conference room at the United States Customs Office in El Paso was thick with tension. It was jammed with over thirty representatives from the DEA, FBI, USBP, US Customs and Immigration, El Paso County Sheriffs, the local tri-state anti-organized crime unit, Intelligence officers and others. Kurt Sorensen was taking his allotted bereavement leave and was not present.

US Customs Port Director Jane Wallace stood up and brought the room to some semblance of order.

"Good morning, ladies and gentleman. This is the most difficult meeting I’ve had to chair in my entire career. I’m going to apprise you of the events that took place yesterday afternoon in Juarez involving one of our fleet vehicles. After that, I’ll turn things over to the DEA rep to give us some background information. Before we begin, please close the door. What is discussed here today does not leave this room."

She went on to include all the details given to them by the Juarez Police the day before. The attendees took a collective gasp and subdued emotions could be heard throughout the room. The raw emotion was palpable; so many officers had known Kurt and some got to know the family on a personal level.

The DEA agent stood up and started matter-of-factly. It’s here. I’m sorry to say, the drug war that has been in full escalation in South Florida has finally landed on our doorstep. The drive-by shooting yesterday was not random. It was a statement. That statement is, ‘we’re here.’ I’ll get to who the ‘we’ is later on.

He continued, The attack was on a law enforcement vehicle. Even though it was unmarked, they somehow knew it. I’m hoping against hope that they could not see inside because of the heavily tinted windows, and therefore did not purposefully target a defenseless woman and her children. I’m guessing they noticed that stupid government issued ethanol reminder sticker they ‘discreetly’ put on all our vehicles. The finance people were told right off it was a bad idea.

Make no mistake, these people are intelligent, well informed, dialed in and very, very determined. This is a multi-billion dollar industry, and we’re in their way. This is a different breed. They’re not your garden variety drug smugglers. They’re well armed, have endless resources and are motivated. That said, we can and will win this war, but know this: they have one weapon that we don’t have - terror. No doubt you’re familiar with the phrase ‘Plata O Plomo’ - silver or lead, which basically means take our bribe or get shot.

The fact that the drug war is here is no surprise. What is shocking is the relative short length of time it took to migrate here. As many of you know, we had been tracking the trends closely. Of all times during our research and data analysis, this is one time I wish I was dead wrong. But, like it or not, we’re suddenly right in the middle of it. We need to prepare for battle.

The DEA agent provided a very organized, articulate and comprehensive presentation on the United States war on drugs that obviously took months to prepare. The war was being fought against the Colombian drug cartel, a co-operative of sorts of the major dealers there. Pablo Escobar was the biggest player.

By the mid-eighties, production, transportation and smuggling of drugs had become an industry. However, while the purity levels of large quantities remained high at an average of 85 - 90 %, the average price per kilo was steadily on the decline, spurring the cartels to ship in ever growing quantities - large enough to fill sea containers in order to maintain the revenue streams. They were hidden in concrete piles, canned goods and even in the wooden pallets on which the goods were stacked. At one point, it was estimated an additional 6 billion dollars in drug money was sifting through south Florida, over and above the regular economy. It was largely cash and it was difficult to ‘convert’ that much currency. The cartels found the best solution was to ship the money offshore to front companies they had established, then ‘loan’ the funds back to a similar company who would invest in construction, leading to a sudden outcropping of large stands of condominiums and office buildings that helped beautify Miami.

The drug routes originated in Colombia, and the illicit product would find its way through Panama and into Miami, dropped offshore or flown directly into privately owned farms in Central Florida. As a result, the South Florida Drug Task Force was created. Stepped up vigilance, intelligence and examination techniques on their part were rewarded with massive seizures of both drugs and money being transported for laundering. This caused the drug routes to slowly shift to the Mexican border, soon to be the major point of entry for cocaine into the United States. Mexican organizations, first paid in cash for their reliable transportation efforts, would soon advance to being remunerated in product, sometimes up to 50% of the cocaine shipments coming up. Along with the drug traffic, came the eventual gangs; their culture, violence and death slowly shifted with it.

But, not everyone dismissed the insurgence as pure evil. There would be many beneficiaries of drug money flowing sideways to town mayors, police and even the churches. In an ironic twist of allegiance, many Narcocorridos, ‘drug’ songs named after a type of Mexican folk ballad, filled the countryside honoring the