families and the grand-children he would never play with. His mind was no longer rationale. At least the pangs of hunger and thirst had gone away. Most sounds didn’t register, and he could no longer feel his arms or legs. Insects were inside his ears and nose. There seemed to be a beam of light and a soft voice ... “John. John. It’s Peter. Can you hear me?”
Stokes could vaguely sense someone pressing his shoulder, but it felt dreamlike ... “John!”
Peter had burrowed under the back wall of the metal building and crawled in the dirt through the darkness, through debris littering the floor. He had been only feet away when the Mexicans inspected their prisoners. Silhouettes of the two fallen men were barely visible from the single set of headlights in front of the building. His only weapon was the folding knife he had purchased with Guy en route to Padilla’s house. He kept his voice down, whispering into John’s ear, “John Stokes, you’ve got to hear me!”
Something registered and Stokes shuddered upon recognizing Peter’s voice. “John, if you can understand me, nod.” Peter kept his eyes on opening at the front opening of the building as Stokes nodded weakly.
“John, I’m going to get you out, get you home. Don’t leave me.” Another nod.
“Look. I’m going to check out the other man, but I’m here. Just hang tough, pal.”
Peter slid over to Tilman. Touching him gently, the body was hot, “Soldier, can you hear me? Nod if you can.” The man appeared to be alive but not responsive. He went back to John.
“John, listen to me. I’ve got to get some help, so be strong buddy. I’ll be back for you. Think of Carolyn and the kids. Don’t leave us. I promise to get you out.” Peter made another promise he didn’t want to regret.
A car started outside the warehouse and drove away on the single road leading back toward town. At this point, Stokes and Tilman were left to the guards for their pleasure.
Smuggler’s Pass
Cardenas’ convoy made slow progress along the trail until reaching the Transmountain Highway where the group reformed, then drove north toward the crest, above 5000 feet altitude. Unseen and unheard above, a “Predator” unmanned aircraft was tracking them. The Aircraft was on loan from the U.S. Air Force, controlled from Holloman Field in New Mexico. Normally, it was unarmed along the border, but this mission carried Hellfire missiles in case they were needed. They could lock onto the infrared signature of a vehicle and obliterate it with pinpoint accuracy.
As the convoy neared the U.S. border at Smuggler’s Pass, it passed a turnout where large trucks were parked. The spotters had not paid attention as trucks frequently stopped to cool their brakes before crossing over the Pass and heading downhill into Texas. Everyone in the line of SUVs was nervous. Roadblocks were common along this route.
At his house, Padilla was shaken, but recovering from his ordeal. He rolled the chair on its side and slowly wiggled out of his bindings, leaving bits of his shirt behind. His guards were still comatose, so he cleaned up and dressed, then drove himself to the police station. He didn’t say anything about his visitor, and began forming the police guard that would escort the five large trucks to the border crossing in a procession.
The trucks were already aligned along Boulevard Gomez Morin. Padilla rode in the lead police car and a second car trailed at the back as they escorted the big rigs with lights and sirens. The drivers of the trucks were being paid extremely well, knowing that they would spend time in American jails. It wasn’t something new for them, and the Americans treated prisoners better than some of the hotels in Juarez. As the police cars aligned with the trucks, they began to roll faster, gradually reaching sixty kilometers per hour heading toward Interstate 45 north through the heart of Juarez, aiming for U.S. I-110 and the Cordova Port of Entry Bridge to cross into the United States. The Mexican highway patrol put a roadblock south of the I-45 intersection to block any traffic between the truck line and the U.S. Customs inspection station. As they merged north onto I-110, they accelerated to 100KPH (60MPH) and the police cars dropped away.
In the mountains, Cardenas’ lead driver was maintaining about 60KPH nervously watching his mirrors to be sure all SUVs were together. The dark fissure in the mountain crest ahead, leading to a hilltop pass created an ominous silhouette against the night sky as he envisioned a classic ambush in an old black and white cowboy movie. As the highway climbed higher into the pass, it crested, then turned slightly right, with a caution sign indicating a tight turn and rapid descent with a speed limit of 35MPH. He ignored it, continuing the turn at speed with others following.
Elsewhere, at the crossing in El Paso, new encrypted radios came alive, “Alert, Alert! Convoy trucks approaching Cordova Bridge.”
“Roger that,” came several responses.
The semi-truck line passed the Juarez checkpoint at the entrance to the Cordova Bridge going 120KPH. The lead driver focused every ounce of attention on the American checkpoint gates about half a mile ahead. His arms were ridged as he tensed to break through the barrier. Instinctively, he pressed the accelerator to the floor in defiance of authorities ahead. As the gates grew larger, he saw that the bars were up and the booths empty. He panicked. If he touched the brakes, his rig would veer into the abutments, so he drove through the gate at full speed.
At the pass, the convoy passed by a sign welcoming them into the United States. The lead driver pressed the accelerator harder on the downhill turn trying to clear the gorge quickly, when suddenly an enormous semi-trailer filled his vision. Even with anti-lock brakes, the overloaded SUVs were too heavy to control in the short stopping distance. He tried to swerve left and tipped the truck, flipping several times. The entire procession collided in a herringbone tangle of steel.
As gunmen struggled from the wreckage, Helicopters screamed overhead. Then high-power spotlights blinded the smugglers. Armed Blackhawk gunships were hovering above the roadblock. The steep sides of the pass completed the trap. Some foolish gunmen fired in the direction of the helicopters, but were in turn shot by snipers positioned along the tops of the pass. The convoy, its cargo, and all the smugglers were captured in less than five minutes without a single American casualty.
There were no Mexican heroes at the Cordova Bridge either. A few miles north of the gates, the line of trucks was pinched between truck blockades without a shot fired. The trailers were empty.
The Cavalry
Outside the old warehouse, kneeling in a shallow brush-rimmed crevasse, Peter made a phone call, “Josh, where are you?”
“We’re close, boss, started across two hours ago and hit the main roads half an hour ago. We’re sitting in Lt. Gormam’s pickup, near your dirt road.”
“All right. Walk in with the weaps and stay covered if any traffic is on the road. I’m about ten minutes in. Double-time.”
“Roger that.”
Without waiting, he began jogging toward them to help with the weapons, meeting in less than five minutes.
They were behind cover as he approached. “I’m glad you guys didn’t shoot me in the dark!”
He was pleased that one of Gorman’s men had joined the expedition. Introductions were made all around. Only Peter and Josh knew each other, but soldiers bond very quickly.
Peter said, “All right, men, here’s the layout,” as he began sketching in the dirt.
Several minutes later, Peter and Josh were back under the warehouse wall, lying next to Stokes. This time, Peter gently pulled the tape covering John’s mouth, but he didn’t respond. “John.” He shook him lightly, seeing him grimace. He whispered, “John, it's Peter. I’ve got Josh Blomstein with me.”
With more clarity than expected, Stokes mumbled, “Oh, Peter, I thought I was dreaming.”
Still whispering, “It’s okay, buddy. We’re going to start cutting you both free, it’ll take a while.”
In a choked voice, John answered, “Okay, Peter, I’m not going anywhere.”
“John, do you think you ca
n walk?
“No. They tied me good. I lost feeling everywhere.”
“Okay, pal. Just stay cool. We’ll get you out of here.”
Josh was working on releasing Tilman, who wasn’t moving or responding to his quiet voice. They kept low profiles behind the soldiers. There was a lot of rope and tape to remove. Thankfully, neither Tilman nor Stokes could cry out as the tape stripped away.
Once the ropes were cut, it was horrifying to see the two men retain their twisted positions. They had been tied too long and too tightly.
As Peter’s anger swelled, the volume of dialogue outside the front of the warehouse increased. Something had happened to anger the Mexicans. He didn’t understand Spanish, and both men to to get to treatment quickly.
Peter and Josh looked at each other as they blew dirt from their M4 receivers. Peter said in a soft voice, “Okay, brother, let’s do it.”
They rose slowly and moved along the darkest wall of the warehouse to the front, which was almost entirely opened to the darkness outside. Peering out of the opening, Peter gestured that about twelve men were congregated out front.
He keyed his headset, “Stinger 1 and Stinger 2, are you in position?”
“Stinger 1, roger.”
“Stinger 2, roger.”
With that, Peter stood, cocked his weapon and walked out toward the gunmen with Josh at his side. At first, no one paid