Broken Borders Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - THE FRIENDLY SKIES

  Chapter 2 - WHITE DEATH

  Chapter 3 - CALL TO ACTION

  Chapter 4 - BACK HOME

  Chapter 5 - VILLAINS

  Chapter 6 - 12 STEPS

  Chapter 7 - GO WEST

  Chapter 8 - BLISS TO BLISS

  Chapter 9 - NASTY PEOPLE

  Chapter 10 - ZIP ALONG DOTTED LINE

  Chapter 11 - RACE AGAINST TIME

  Chapter 12 - DEATH OR DISHONOR

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Dhul wheeled to see Bo aiming center-mass at his chest, and he screamed, “Allah Akbar!” as he lunged forward at her.

  Bang! Bang! went the Glock as Bo did a military double tap, placing two shots into his chest that could be covered by a quarter, but the nine-millimeter pistol was not large enough to stop the behemoth. He swung and open hand knocked the gun from Bo’s hand.

  Grinning evilly, he went after the woman, who barely reached his mid-chest. Women in the aircraft, seeing the charge, screamed loudly. Bo stood her ground, concentrating, and waited until he was right on top of her. His plate-sized hands grabbed her upper arms, and she stomped down on his foot, breaking it with the edge of her foot, and he bent over in pain, screaming . . .

  Titles by Don Bendell

  CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DETACHMENT

  CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DETACHMENT:

  BROKEN BORDERS

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DETACHMENT: BROKEN BORDERS

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / December 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Don Bendell Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21257-8

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  My apple trees will never get across

  And eat the cones under the pines, I tell him.

  He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

  —ROBERT FROST, “MENDING WALL”

  This book is dedicated to some special people in the Special Forces (Green Beret) community. All SF personnel have my undying respect and love, but these people have a special place in my heart for a variety of reasons. In no particular order: my wife, Shirley A. Bendell, wife of a Green Beret and mother of two Green Berets, “an incredible breed of woman”; my two youngest sons, SF SSG Brent Bendell and SPC Joshua Bendell; retired SF LTC Dennis Yost, my adopted “little” brother; retired SFer the Honorable Rudi Gresham, presidential appointee and my “Bro”; my friend Robin Moore, author of The Green Berets and the “Ballad of the Green Berets,” The French Connection, and more, and his wife, Helen; my friend and fellow author and SFer Jim Morris; my close friend Roxanne Merritt, for years curator of the Special Forces Museum, but more importantly, official historian of U.S. Army Special Forces; my friends retired COL Roger Donlon, Medal of Honor, and Norma; my friend and SF and CIA legend retired SGM Billy Waugh; my friends SF legend retired SGM Jimmy Dean, the late SGM Joe Seyers, the late SGM Charlie Telfair, and H. Ross Perot; my friends retired GEN Bob Kingston, LTG Jack Singlaub, MG Bob Disney, MG Geoff Lambert; and SF legends the late COL Aaron Banks and the late LTG William Yarborough; my namesake, Clint Eastwood, the late John Wayne, and the late Martha Raye, Bo Derek, fellow Green Beret and friend U.S. Surgeon General VADM Rich Carmona, MD; and last, but not least, every one of my SF “Brothers” who served with me at Dak Pek, ODA-242, Co B, 5thSFGA, 1st SF, Republic of Vietnam: COL Joe Dietrich, COL Jim Selders, CPT Mike Sizemore, 1LT Mel Light, CSM Tom Weeks, CSM Joe Kope, SGM David Smith, MSG Don Williams, MSG James “Doc” Phillips, the late MSG Steve Olson, SFC Joe Howard, the late SFC Harry Boyle, the late SFC Chuck Challela, SGT Larry Crotsley, SGT Larry Vosen, SGT Dennis Afshar, SGT Karl McKinley, SGT Ray Hill, and interpreters Nhual, Suat, Tieh, Tuan, and finally, the late Plar, a wonderful little Montagnard girl who will never be forgotten.

  De Oppresso Liber

  Don Bendell

  1

  THE FRIENDLY SKIES

  Bobby Samuels was so happy he and Bo were able to get the two seats just behind the flight attendant’s galley separating first class from the rest of the low-life passengers like him, he humorously thought. He at least had a little more legroom, and only needed to worry about noisy brats behind him. Bobby swallowed the rest of his drink and wondered if they were bringing any more of the little bottles.

  Bo guessed he was thinking that and hoped they would not. Bobby was such a good man, but she hated it when he drank, and he had started downing Wild Turkey and Coke in the airport lounge when they laid over at DIA, Denver International Airport. Bobby did not realize he’d already had several drinks. He simply wondered why he’d never gotten into bed with his beautiful coworker Bo Devore. She had high cheekbones, entrancing green eyes, long curly auburn hair, and a body that made men stare with longing and women stare with envy. Even in Class A’s, or B’s, or even in BDU’s, she could not hide her obvious figure.

  He then quickly realized why he never did try to pursue her romantically. She reminded him of Arianna, and it made him very sad. Sometimes the alcohol anesthetized the pain, but usually not. He was also her senior officer, rank-wise, and felt it would be unprofessional and dangerous to have a relationship with his partner. On the other hand, as macho as he was, Bobby Samuels was a romantic, and the job would not have interfered if it were not for the memories of his late wife.

  Even thoug
h he had started drinking, Bobby was still Bobby and was always aware of his surroundings. He acted as if he was cracking his neck, and glanced around, looking out of the corners of his eyes.

  An alarm went off in his senses. One little thing jumped out at him. It was almost imperceptible.

  He summoned the flight attendant and asked for coffee, black. He wanted to be alert, and his order of coffee alarmed Bo in return. It had been her experience that he would not just stop when he started to drink. Bo’s training, experience, and mindset were also to spot things wrong or out of place, just like Bobby would.

  Bobby politely excused himself and walked to the restroom in the rear of the jet, and the women along the way could not help but watch him as he walked. His shoulders seemed wider than the aisle and his head seemed closer to the ceiling of the jet than that of any of the other men on the flight. Bo always felt his looks reminded her of a cross between the younger versions of Harrison Ford and Tom Selleck, if that could be, and the sight of her partner frequently took her breath away.

  In the tiny lavatory Bobby had to squat down just to function. He splashed cold water on his face, and looked in the mirror shaking his head in disgust. Why had he started drinking? he wondered. He wiped his face with paper towels that were simply too small. He put his hands on the counter and looked at himself in the mirror. Usually, he would smile and make faces at himself, but never lately when he drank. He slapped his face several times and wondered what passengers would think of the strange noises in the restroom, if they heard him. He splashed more water on his face and dried off. Bobby headed back to the front of the jet.

  Four seats back from his seat on the port side of the jet, Bobby’s left, there was a man in the aisle seat who wore a brand-new suit and looked to be Mexican. He wore a Mexican flag lapel pin. He had a laptop opened and looked to be typing, but Bobby noticed the words “Allah Akbar” in the text in several places as he walked by. Now he was even more concerned, very concerned. He was trained to avoid denial in such a circumstance.

  Thankfully, the coffee had arrived, and he asked the flight attendant to bring more.

  When he sat down, Bo whispered, “Fourth seat back on the left? Mexican guy?”

  Bobby nodded. He sipped the coffee and smiled when the flight attendant handed him another, which he gulped down.

  Bobby whispered, “Go to the restroom. On the way back, check out his shoes and the laptop. See if anything is out of place.”

  Bo got up saying aloud, “Excuse me, please,” and smiled at Bobby as if he was a new friend she had just met on the plane.

  Bobby went through another tiny cup of airline coffee before she returned, and was anxious to hear her report when she sat down.

  Bo whispered, “HP laptop. New one. Looks normal. Shoes look fine, wingtips, black. Brand-new. No wear on them.”

  Bobby whispered, “Do you have a compact?”

  Bo said, “Yes.”

  She just waited for his directions, knowing he would tell her what was up when the time was right.

  Bobby said, “Take it out and pretend like you have something in your eye. Keep watching his hands. See if he tries to pull anything from the laptop or pockets.”

  Bo complied while Bobby, holding the folder jacket his ticket came in, walked forward to the flight attendant smiling.

  He held it up so the Mexican passenger could see it and said, “Ma’am, I have a question about my baggage.”

  When he got close to her, he whispered, “This is an emergency, keep smiling, and lead me behind the galley. I’m a cop.”

  She forced a smile, saying, “Let’s get out of the aisle, sir, and let me answer your questions.”

  As soon as they went around the bulkhead, he pulled his badge out. It was gold and embedded in a leather fold-over wallet. The badge read on the outside, “Department of the Army,” and on the inside, “C.I.D. Agent.” He pulled out his military ID and showed it, as well.

  Bobby whispered, “My name is Major Bobby Samuels, and the woman with me is Captain Bo Devore. We are C.I.D. agents, army plainclothes detectives. Is there an air marshal on this plane?”

  She said, “No, sir, what is wrong?”

  “The aisle passenger with the laptop in seat five on the port side of the jet, the Hispanic-looking guy in the blue suit, he has done several things which are really troubling me.”

  The flight attendant stiffened, “Sir, we cannot discriminate because someone looks troubling.”

  Bobby got closer to her face, “I really don’t have time to start arguing with you. He is not Hispanic. He is Middle Eastern, and is in fact a Muslim.”

  She stiffened. “All the more reason, Major, to not—”

  Clenching his teeth, he interrupted, whispering, “You remember all the events on September 11, 2001, don’t you?”

  Face reddening, she said, “Of course, but I don’t—”

  Bobby interrupted. “Remember when the World Trade Center was bombed in 1993?”

  She nodded and started to speak, but he cut her off again. “Do you remember all the U.S. Marines that were killed in their barracks in Lebanon?”

  Meekly now, she nodded.

  He said, “The USS Cole that was blown up?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Bobby said, “Know what every one of those terrorists had in common?”

  “No, what?” she replied, ready to cry now.

  He said, “They all looked very similar to the passenger in the aisle seat in the fifth row on the port side of the jet, and they loved to scream ‘Allah Akbar!’ before dying, which he was writing on his laptop a minute ago. Now, are you going to cooperate, or take a chance I am wrong and get your throat slit by a box-cutter?”

  She nodded and wiped a tear away.

  Bobby gently dabbed her eye with a napkin, smiling, and said, “Sorry I had to get forceful, but I need your help. You’re from New York City, I’ll bet?”

  She tried to smile bravely, saying, “Boston.”

  Bobby smiled.

  He said, “I need you to tell the pilot to slowly turn us and get us to the nearest airport and report what I told you. Other than that, act perfectly normal. Jot this down. Tell him to report my name, Major Bobby Samuels, and my partner is Captain Bo Devore. We are U.S. Army C.I.D agents and operate out of the Pentagon. I do not have time to explain, just get him to call it in and turn the plane slowly, and tell them I said ‘terrorist incident.’ I have to get back to my seat and investigate. Don’t you worry. We will be okay.”

  She smiled bravely, saying “I’ll do it, I promise. I’m sorry, it is just they tell us so much . . .”

  He smiled, gently shushing her. “I understand. You’re doing fine. Don’t worry.”

  Bobby walked away from the galley and looked back at her smiling, saying, “Thank you very much, ma’am.”

  He wouldn’t even glance toward the Middle-Easterner. He knew Bo would, and the man might be looking closely at him for a giveaway.

  Bo was still blinking one eye and acting like she was trying to get a pesky eyelash. He sat down and leaned toward her.

  “It is getting called in,” he whispered, “He reached in his shirt pocket for a pen earlier, and a couple blue-tipped matches started to come out of his shirt pocket. That is what alerted me.”

  Bo said, “He has pulled a wire from the right side of the laptop, with a small plug. Several times, it has looked like he is trying to reach inside his shirt, but is worried about me seeing him in the mirror, so he moves his hand back. The woman by his window is fast asleep.”

  Bobby whispered, “How many smokers on a plane carry a bunch of blue-tipped matches loose when they can carry a matchbook? He is dressed like a Mexican and spoke with a Spanish accent at the ticket counter, but he was typing in English type, and I saw the words ‘Allah Akbar’ several times as I walked by. The suit is brand-new. His pants still have a clear plastic strip he didn’t see on the back of his right leg that says Size 34 over and over.”

  When Bo heard
Bobby say “Allah Akbar,” she felt a chill run down her spine. She had heard the words, meaning “God is great!” many times while watching Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the head of al-Qaida in Iraq, sawing off the heads of captured American civilians and taping it. He and his helpers, who would hold the captives down, would yell those words over and over while he sawed with his long knife.

  “Bobby,” she said using familiarity the two used only when alone together, “we have got to nail this bastard before he can do anything.”

  Bobby replied, “A headshot would do it, but he has passengers behind him and around him. You using Corbons in your Glock?”

  She whispered, “Yes.”

  He said, “Me, too. We also can’t just light him up without knowing definitely he is a terrorist planning something. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in Leavenworth for smoking a Mexican computer salesman, do you?”

  She gave him a sarcastic look.

  She thought back to June 8th, 2006. It was about four o’clock in the morning and Bo awakened, wide awake, with indigestion. She held her stomach and that did not help. Bo finally got up and like her dad, grabbed the old Arm and Hammer baking soda. She poured a small glass of tap water, then stirred in a half-flat teaspoon of baking soda. She drank it and returned to bed. Bo decided to turn on the TV and catch the current world news. She switched to Fox News and stared at a photograph of a very dead Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. She heard the announcer tell about Zarqawi being killed, and Bo pumped her fist, saying, “Yes!”

  She grabbed the phone and dialed Bobby.

  His sleepy voice said, “Hello.”

  Bo started to answer, but burped really loud.

  Bobby said, “Who in the hell is this?”

  Bo was so embarrassed her ears turned red. “Bobby, it’s me. I am sorry. I bumped my lamp, and it scraped the top of the nightstand. Sorry.”