Broken Borders, page 11
She said, “Hi, I am Sally Mayweather, senior resident agent for the FBI from the Durango office, and this is Donald Kingston, senior resident agent from our Grand Junction office. We are here to expedite your journey to Page. Well, actually, we will accompany you to the Utah state line, and a Utah special agent will meet us there and accompany you to the Arizona line.”
They walked toward the rental pickup area, and Bo said, “You have to be kidding. You guys are feds. Why do you stop at the state line?”
Donald replied, “That’s how the agency is set up. We cross the line, the agent in charge of the Blanding, Utah, area might get upset. That is his territory, and honestly, we do not get along very well with him.”
Bobby gave Bo one of those private looks.
“Oh,” Bo said politely.
A few minutes later, they were in their SUV following a black SUV with darkened windows and flashing blue and red lights blinking all over. Ten minutes from the airport south of town, they turned west on U.S. Highway 160 and were soon through the tourist town of Durango, in less than an hour passed Mesa Verde National Monument, and were soon in the Four Corners city of Cortez. On the western edge of Cortez, Bobby thought they would take a southern turn on 491 and go by the popular Ute Indian Casino of Towoac, then 160 would branch off to the west again, passing through the Four Corners, where the states of Colorado, Arizona, Utah, and New Mexico all converge and touch corners, the only place in the USA where four states do so.
Instead, the FBI agents led them on a small two-lane paved road with a sign indicating it was heading toward Hovenweep National Monument, and the tiny Navajo town of Aneth directly west of Cortez.
Bobby and Bo were amazed on the drive toward Aneth. There were beautiful homes along this road and green pastures with small ranches. Then, suddenly, they passed a road going off to the right, with signage indicating Hovenweep as well as Cross Canyon, and immediately they were passing through the lands of the giant Navajo Indian Reservation, and the green disappeared to be replaced by brown. The lush green alfalfa fields gave way to pastures of heat-baked rocks and sand. To their left, a stream, McElmo Creek, snaked its way toward the San Juan River, and it was green along the waterway, which made the varying shades of brown seem even drier.
Soon, they started seeing occasional flocks of sheep or goats and ramshackle homes. Bo was shocked when she saw the poverty on the reservation and told Bobby so. She looked at the numerous little frame houses, many with windows with no glass in them, outhouses behind some. She spotted, by several homes, small dome-shaped buildings.
“I have seen several of those buildings,” she said, “What are they?”
Bobby said, “Hogans.”
“Hogans?” she asked, pronouncing it the way it is spelled.
Accenting the second syllable, he replied, “No, Hoegahns . It is the Navajo family lodge and holds tremendous spiritual significance to the family, the clan. The smaller ones you have been seeing are sweat lodges. Great place to go if you wanna get stoned on peyote.”
“Peyote, really?” she queried.
Bobby laughed, “The shamans don’t ever call it that. It is called medicine, period. Some just smoke tobacco.”
“Medicine, huh?” She smiled. “I think that’s what we called drugs in college. I don’t remember.”
Bobby laughed. “You never smoked a joint in your life, Captain.”
Bo raised an eyebrow, saying, “Oh, yeah? What makes you think so?”
“Didn’t want to break Mommy and Daddy’s heart, especially Daddy.” He grinned. “That’s why you had straight A’s all through school, sang in the church choir, and were head majorette, probably.”
Bo started laughing, and finally said, “Well, you, sir, are totally wrong. I was in the school choir, and was head cheerleader, not majorette.”
The FBI agents in front of them pulled over. So they pulled over behind them. The four got out of their vehicles.
Donald said, “We can’t go into Utah, and the Utah ASAC was supposed to meet us back a ways, but he was not there.”
He went to his trunk and came back. He had a black plastic rectangular box with three suction cups and a wire and cigarette lighter plug on it. He handed it to Bobby.
“Here you go,” he said, “It’s a Gladiator. Portable LED light deal. Just plug it in, turn it on, and rock and roll. You can ship it back to me or drop it off at Sally’s office in Durango on your way back.”
“Thanks,” Bobby and Bo said simultaneously. Then Bo added, “It just amazes me that you are FBI and cannot cross the border.”
Sally said, “Well, we are federal agents. We can. It is just that we are supposed to respect each other’s jurisdiction and stay out unless we are in pursuit or similar.”
Bo just shook her head, and then she and Bobby shook hands with the two agents and exchanged business cards. All four got in their respective vehicles, waved, and drove off.
Five minutes later, the road Bobby and Bo was on came to an end. To their left front was a bridge over McElmo Creek, and on the other side of the short concrete bridge was the small Navajo settlement of Aneth. They turned right and headed down the two-lane highway toward Montezuma Creek just five or six miles away. To their left was the San Juan River coursing its way toward the nearly two-hundred-mile-long Lake Powell. You would not know the river was there, though, as it was barely visible in spots. The river basin here was a mile wide, but next to the fast-flowing river was very thick vegetation, almost all Russian olive and manzanita. To their right were rock cliffs. The entire valley was devoid of vegetation, except right along the river, and there it was so thick it made up for the barren land further out.
Bobby and Bo both seemed to realize how long it had been since they had eaten, and she said, “Bobby, I know we have to hurry, but I need to relax a few minutes and eat.”
“I am so glad you said that,” he said, “My stomach feels like my throat has been slit. We’ll stop at the first place we see.”
Five minutes later, he stopped, and at first, she thought they were going into a modern convenience store, but he pulled up to a diner next door to it that looked like it came out of the fifties. He held her door open for her, and they went inside. The inside didn’t change the impression gained from looking at the exterior.
They sat down at a Formica-top table and ended up ordering burgers, fries, and colas. All the residents were Navajo and everyone was friendly.
After they ate, Bobby said, “Now, I have been on this reservation before with Boom. Have you ever tasted Navajo fry bread?”
Bo made a face and shook her head, saying, “Fry bread? Never even heard of it.”
He said, “You have been missing out on life, girl. It is horrible for your heart, but you have to try some.”
He ordered two fry breads.
Bo got hooked, too. In the back, a large deep-frying pan sat on the stove. The cook made a tortilla-type shell out of Bluebird flour and fried it in lard. Powdered sugar was added at the end, and Bobby and Bo added cinnamon and honey to the shells.
“Oh, mmm,” she cooed, “this is so wonderful. I want to eat twenty in a row. It is so fattening and unhealthy it is sinful, but they taste soo good.”
Bobby chuckled, “Hey, don’t hold back. Tell me if you like it or not.”
They finished lunch and went into the convenience store next door to buy some bottled water. In the store, Bo was drawn to a little girl who came in with her mother and was dressed in traditional Navajo dress.
Bo knelt down and said, “You sure are beautiful. Where did you get your dress?”
The little girl’s big brown eyes twinkled as she smiled, and acted very bashful, occasionally looking up at her proud grinning mother, a nice-looking lady with no shape to her calf muscles and a protruding gut from the very high-fat diet. This was a common sight among some women on the reservation.
The little girl folded her hands behind her back and twisted from side to side, embarrassed by Bo’s praise and attention. Bobby just grinned while watching Bo interact.
Her mother said, “Tell her where you got your dress.”
In a whisper of a voice, the little girl said, “My mommy made it.”
“Well,” Bo said, “it certainly is very beautiful and so are you. May I have a hug?”
The little girl threw her arms around Bo’s neck and squeezed her tightly. The mother then took her hand and smiling, nodded at Bo and Bobby, and the two walked out the door. Bo wiped both eyes, and turned toward the door. Bobby held it for her.
As she walked by, he whispered, “Ya big softie.”
Bo was strangely silent as they drove west toward Bluff, Utah. The land around them was varying shades of brown with a bright glaze to it from the unforgiving sunshine. The few steps between the convenience store and the SUV had been like a walk through a blast furnace being overworked. To their left, though, in sharp contrast, was the San Juan River and the Vietnam-like ultra-thick green foliage. It was like a wet green serpent winding its way through a vast dry sandbox, filled with rocks, as it wound its way toward that man-created giant Lake Powell.
Finally, Bo said, “Did you see the beautiful and expensive silver and turquoise jewelry the little girl was wearing?”
Bobby said, “Did you see what kind of car they drove after they left?”
Bo said, “No, I didn’t see them.”
Samuels replied, “You could see them behind us in the rearview mirrors. They didn’t have a car. They were walking along the side of the road, probably heading back toward Aneth.”
“Aneth?” she said.
Bobby said, “Next town a few miles east along the river. It was on the other side of that small bridge when we turned onto this road.”
Bo said, “Bobby, turn around, please. We have to go back and pick them up. They can’t be out walking in this heat. This is like when you were in Iraq.”
He whipped the car around and flew back toward Aneth.
A mile past Montezuma Creek, they spotted the little girl and her mother. They climbed into the backseat of the extended car, both wearing big happy smiles, and both gratefully accepted cold bottles of mountain spring water.
“Where are you going?” the woman asked.
“Page,” he said.
“You are going the wrong way,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he responded.
Bobby took them to a house that was just off the highway that ran through Aneth and Montezuma Creek. Bo could not believe it when she saw the little box-shaped shack with no glass in any window. Two dogs barked in the yard.
The little girl looked up at Bo saying, “Please wait?”
Bo nodded.
The little girl entered the house, emerging seconds later and running up to Bo. She put a little beaded strip in her hand, three inches long.
“Did you make this?” Bo asked.
“Yes,” she said, embarrassed again.
The Washingtonian asked, “What does it mean?”
In a very soft voice, almost a whisper, the little girl, pointing at the strip, said, “When you go you take a little of my heart with you.”
Bo Devore grabbed her and hugged her. When she let go, the little girl ran inside.
Bo was visibly shaken, tears streaming down her face.
She said, “Damn you, Bobby Samuels, you son of a bitch! Get out of here now!”
Chuckling, he pulled away while she wiped her eyes over and over.
“Is this going to happen to me the whole time we are down here?” she asked.
“Probably,” he replied, and started chuckling.
They drove west again along the San Juan River, with the highway finally moving a little away from the river. The treeless mesas all around were completely flat on top. When they got close to Bluff, there was a small ridge off to their right about fifty yards off the road. There was a small Anasazi cliff dwelling there with only two rooms. The dirt road going to it showed that many tourists spotted it and looked within. Shortly beyond the little ruins, the relatively straight road dipped and curved to the left and a dirt road went left on the curve, which Bobby took.
He slowed suddenly, and it seemed like it was an unplanned stop.
Bo said, “We have got to tell the President about the horrible poverty here.”
Bobby laughed. “Here? You might mention the horrible poverty on all the reservations while you’re at it.”
“You stopped pretty fast.”
He said, “This road goes to a swinging foot bridge over the river, and there is a big cliff dwelling on the other side. You’ll be able to see it in that red cliff face in a minute. It will only take a couple minutes,”
She watched for a minute and soon saw a naturally hollowed-out bowl-shaped area in the bottom of the cliff, and constructed in the middle of it was the sixteen-room Anasazi ruins. The road dipped down to the river, and they parked by the graffiti-painted rock walls to their left. Bo looked across the river, and started to comment on the ruins. She got concerned looking at Bobby’s face.
“What’s up?” she asked, getting a chill down her spine.
Bobby shook his head and grabbed a toothpick, sticking it between his lips.
“I can just sense the enemy is getting close to the target,” he said, “I had a chill run up and down my spine, and I never feel that anymore. Been through too much. We need to get going.”
He turned the flashers back on and peeled out of there.
“Are you sure?” she asked, very nervously looking around at all the thick foliage by the river.
“No,” he replied, “I’m a human, subject to being over-dramatic, suggestible, and overly enthusiastic, but I am pretty damned certain nonetheless.”
Now, she was no longer riding with a man she had secretly fallen in love with. Now she was seeing Major Bobby Samuels, the warrior again, close up. It frightened her in a way. On the other hand, though, it excited her and did make her feel very protected, as if Bo Devore needed protection.
“How do you feel something like that?” she asked as a cop, genuinely curious.
“Deer and other animals that you would consider prey have this sixth sense. I call it a sense of knowing,” he replied, “Warriors have it, too. You ever have someone look at your back through a window, and you felt it and a chill ran down your spine?”
“Yes,” she said, “when I was a young teenager. Our neighbor snuck around our house and watched me in the shower. I felt it and looked out the window real quickly and saw his face. He fell off our trash can, and my father caught him before I could tell him. Dad beat him up something awful.”
Bo got another chill just recalling the incident, thinking about her real horror story with the uncle.
Bobby said, “Well, that is the sixth sense I am speaking about. When I bow-hunt, I always look behind the animal I am getting ready to shoot. The early American Indians believed that looking directly at an animal or enemy was a way to spook the quarry. They felt that the animal would sense that it was being watched. I have a very strong feeling that our al Qaeda perps are at Page or close. I have learned to listen to that inner voice of mine. It has saved my bacon before.”
Bobby said, “I was studying all the possible targets in the area on my laptop on the plane, and have come up with only two that would really make a major impact.”
“What are they?” she asked.
“The Grand Canyon and Glen Canyon Dam, of course.”
“The Grand Canyon?”
He replied, “Those are the two most notable targets in the area, but they could also affect the Grand Canyon, if they took out the Glen Canyon Dam, so I think Boom has to be totally correct. They would not only wipe out Lake Powell, but knock out the electricity in most of the Four Corners area, kill thousands, and disrupt the economy big-time. It would take decades to recover.”
It would be that bad?” she asked.
“Probably worse,” he said, “Plus, if they take out the dam, there would be a wall of water roaring downstream that could probably knock out the Hoover Dam by the time it got there.”
“Like a tidal wave?” she asked.
“Like a tidal wave on anabolic steroids,” he added. “The effects would be devastating for years, I believe.”
“The wall of water would be that large?” Bo asked.
Just the thought gave her chills again.
“Lake Powell is one hundred and eighty-six miles long, has over two thousand miles of shoreline. That is like driving from here to Illinois maybe.”
“Two thousand miles of shoreline!” she said, truly amazed, “That is incredible!”
“There are ninety-six canyons feeding into Lake Powell!” Bobby said enthusiastically.
“Boy, have you been doing your homework,” she replied.
“I always do.”
They drove for miles, got stopped by a Barney Fife-like deputy west of Bluff, Utah, and both had to educate him in no uncertain terms, and kept flying toward Page driving north of Lake Powell.
Several hours later, they checked into their motel in Page, Arizona, and Bo pointed out a large electrical facility with big transformers just outside town. She asked if that could be a target also.
Bobby said, “Just watch.”
A short time later, they drove over a bridge that crossed the narrow, steep, and deep Glen Canyon just below the dam. Then, before taking the Wahweap Marina road, they pulled into the large parking lot and tourist center directly above the dam. Bobby pulled up to a cyclone fence, and they got out. The dam was massive and went down hundreds of feet. To their left the massive Lake Powell stretched out.
Bo said, “Look how large the dam is! And they have barriers out there in the water, so you cannot get close to it with a boat. That was smart.”
Bobby rattled the cyclone fence, saying, “This isn’t.”
She said, “What do you mean? Look how big and thick the dam is, and how far down. Guards would spot saboteurs as soon as they climbed over this fence. And how could anybody carry enough explosives to even make a small hole in this dam?”
Bobby laughed. “That is why what Boom said makes total sense. They can’t blow it, but are going to burn the dam away.” He walked back and forth along the fence, looking down, and was strangely silent. She knew he was calculating something, but to her the dam seemed very secure, and she could not understand how anyone could destroy it without getting caught in the process.
