Law enforcement was in Agent Martin’s blood. His father was a retired Texas Ranger and his mother had worked as a sheriff’s department dispatcher. He had considered following in his father’s footsteps, but after thirteen years of service with the border patrol, he had been promoted to the rank of assistant chief patrol agent, and he knew he was staying put. Besides, the tall, lanky man was an outdoorsman at heart, and this way he spent at least part of most workdays out under the open skies he loved so much.
Agent Diaz had never really considered criminal justice as a career option, but when she graduated from the University of Texas El Paso, the Department of Homeland Security was rapidly expanding its ranks of border patrol agents and she jumped at the chance. After completing her training, her first two years of service had mainly consisted of line watching along the border, but now in her third year with the border patrol, she had been assigned field duty. She had grown up on a ranch in southwest Texas and had barrel-raced for years when she was a young girl. She loved the thrill of riding on patrol rather than just sitting and watching the fence between Juarez and El Paso.
“Well,” said Agent Martin as he reined his big tan horse to a stop and leaned on his saddle horn with both hands. “This ought to put us somewhere close to the area.”
“Did we get an idea of how far from the interstate the flare was?” asked Agent Diaz as she pulled her dark brown horse alongside her partner and removed her cowboy hat, running her hand through her black hair.
“Naw,” replied Agent Martin. “Hell, I’m not even really sure he saw a flare. Could’ve been an airplane light thirty miles away. These big skies can play tricks on you, particularly at night.”
“Yeah, still worth a look, though. Not a half-bad morning for a ride, to boot.”
“That it is, Maria,” Agent Martin replied with a smile. “That it is. Well, let’s head up toward that higher ground a ways. If someone was dropping something, they’d most likely unload it before they got too deep into the hills.”
“Sounds good.”
The two agents paced their horses toward the elevated terrain and then headed east, looking for signs of travel along the foot trails that occasionally intersected their path. From time to time, they would discover a discarded water bottle or abandoned sandal, but nothing that appeared fresh or promising. Suddenly, Agent Diaz noticed something odd about a half mile away and slightly back from the edge of the ridgeline above them.
“Hank,” she said as she stopped her horse and squinted into the bright sun that rose in the eastern sky. “Think maybe we got something up there.”.
“Well, well,” said Agent Martin as he raised a pair of black binoculars to his eyes. “Looks like some kind of camp. I got four tents, a dining fly, and a couple vehicles, maybe more. Can’t tell from this angle.”
“Any movement?”
“Not that I can see. Let’s head back to that wash we passed back there and come in from behind and above for a better look-see.”
The agents returned to the washed-out area that ran down the slope of the ridge. Leaning forward in their saddles, they held onto the necks of their mounts as the horses scampered up the slope. Reaching the top, they looped around the position of the camp, stopping about two hundred yards away to dismount and further examine the area.
“Base,” Agent Martin said calmly into his radio, “this is Patrol Seven. We’re in the foothills north of I-10 in the vicinity of the flare that was reported. We have a campsite with four tents around a dining fly. Don’t see any activity, but there’re three ATVs and a dirt bike parked outside. Going in to check it out. Over.”
“Roger Patrol Seven,” his radio responded. “Do you require backup? Over.”
“Nope. Not yet. Might just be some campers. Will advise. Over.”
The two agents led their horses towards the campsite, removing their Remington shotguns with composite stocks and pistol grips from the long leather scabbards attached to the sides of their saddles. Agent Diaz chambered a shell in her shotgun and unsnapped the holster of the forty-caliber semiautomatic pistol she wore at her hip. She’d only been in the field with Agent Martin for a year, but she’d been fired on before.
“United States Border Patrol!” Agent Martin announced loudly as they approached the campsite. “Anyone there, come out with your hands where I can see ’em!”
The men of STRAC-BOM slowly and wearily emerged from their pup tents and watched in silence as the two mounted border patrol agents in green uniforms and tan Stetson hats entered the perimeter of the camp, brandishing their shotguns across their laps.
“Who was on lookout?” a perturbed General X-Ray asked his men.
“You didn’t assign one, general,” replied Private Tango.
“You fellas look a little old to be boy scouts,” said Agent Martin. “We got some kind of sleepover going on here?”
“I’m Brigadier General X-Ray,” the General began. “Commander of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia, STRAC-BOM for short, and these are my Fire Teams. I assume you’ve heard of us.”
“Well, no, I surely haven’t,” replied Agent Martin. “Agent Diaz, you ever heard of a STRAC-MOM?”
“It’s STRAC-BOM,” replied the General.
“Apologies,” replied Agent Martin. “You ever heard of a STRAC-BOM?”
“I’ve heard of civilian militias,” Agent Diaz said as she surveyed the crew of men in ragged and mismatched fatigues. “But not this one in particular.”
“Just what sort of war games are you and your men up to, general?” asked Agent Martin.
“We’re engaged in Operation Land Shark,” replied the General. “A multi-day surveillance and interdiction campaign aimed at eliminating illegal border crossings into our great nation.”
“Wait a minute,” said Agent Diaz, laughing. “Are you the guys that tried to shut down the international bridge in Tornillo awhile back?”
“Yes,” replied the General. “Operation Dam the Gate was not entirely appreciated by your law enforcement counterparts; however, I believe it at least made a symbolic statement of how true red-blooded Americans feel about your inability to stem the flow of illegal aliens washing over our border. After all, as the great General George S. Patton once said, ‘All it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing.’”
“I don’t believe that quote is attributed to Patton,” Agent Diaz replied.
“Doesn’t matter,” snapped the General. “The point is that we stand armed and committed to succeeding where authorities like you have failed.”
“And just how armed are you?” asked Agent Martin.
“Our battle gear is in the tents,” the General responded. “All properly registered and licensed, I assure you.”
“You know,” said Agent Martin as he dismounted his horse. “Why don’t we just have a look anyway. Bring any firearms in your possession out here and line them up over there under the dining fly. Unloaded, if you don’t mind.”
The General grumbled in protest as he and his men retrieved their weapons and lined them up as instructed. Agents Martin and Diaz surveyed the cache of motley firearms.