Los Huerfanos

By Gary L Bridges

Los Huerfanos takes its readers on a frantic journey, with rest stops in Baku, Azerbaijan; Tehran, Iran; Reynosa, Mexico; Cuchara, Colorado; deep south Texas, and a remote village at the base of Shirkuh mountain in eastern Iran.

Irans Revolutionary Guard assassinates the president of Iran and plans a desperate attempt to destabilize the United States by forging a deadly alliance with a Mexican drug cartel. With Irans leadership in political turmoil, ultra-extremists exert their influence and rush to finalize the first Iranian nuclear weapon. Fortunately for the United States, a mid-level Iranian official is a deep under-cover mole who provides vital information (at an agonizing personal cost) to the United States CIA and to Israels Mossad.

Steve Curry finds himself on West Peak, staring into a crashed, vintage World War II DC-3 aircraft, which happens to be carrying $100 million of U.S. currency. He later learns that the cash was on its way to a Mexican drug cartel as part of a shocking scheme to develop a gateway across the MexicoU.S. border, which would allow al-Qaeda extremists to enter the United States undetected.

Fortunately Steve knows none of this as he waits on West Peak for reinforcements to arrive. Hes been instructed to hide the unexpected cargo of cash until the CIA decides what to do with it. An elite Army combat team arrives and, having determined that there are no bad guys sharing the mountain with them, set out on a risky night time excursion to deposit the mysterious cash in a hidden mountain vault. Even without bad guys, though, the night time journey delivers its own nightmare for the heavily armed caravan.

On the other side of the world and in another time, the CIA and the Mossad work feverishly to extract the Iranian mole, who wishes to defect with his family as Iran dissolves into chaos after the Shah is deposed in 1979. Circumstances and plain old bad luck prevent Razzi, the Iranian mole, from leaving. Hes searching for his 13 year old daughter, who goes missing just before the family is scheduled to leave for the airport. Razzi believes that government agents have kidnapped her in an effort to make sure that Razzi doesnt leave the country. He stays behind to find her, beginning a life-long odyssey of searching and self-recriminations. His wife and their three other children make it to Amman, Jordan just in time. But they become trapped in a hell hole masquerading as a refugee camp.

After the U.S. Army team and Steve hide the cash near West Peak, the CIA launches a brazen attempt to intervene even further into the Iran-Mexican plot to destabilize the United States. If successful, the plan will poison future transactions between Iran and the cartel and possibly trigger severe repercussions for both sides of the nefarious collaboration. Steve Curry ends up right in the middle of the subterfuge at great risk to himself.

An even greater risk lurks inside Irans own dysfunctional leadership. The CIA learns that Chinese nuclear scientists are assisting Iran with their plans to develop Irans first nuclear weapon. The CIA scrambles to find a way to counter the Iranian/Chinese joint efforts at fulfilling Irans nuclear ambitions.

Razzi continues to provide the CIA with important information from his position within Irans government. With his help the CIA uncovers al-Qaedas shocking and brilliant plan to smuggle al-Qaeda fighters into the United States through Mexico. If successful, the carnage and destruction will dwarf the devastating attack on the World Trade Center on 9/11. The CIA and the U.S. Army realize that they must bury their mutual mistrust of each other and work together to try and counter the planned attacks.

The U.S. Army has only a few days to ramp up and train troops for their bold counter attack to obstruct al-Qaedas plan. The multi-faceted U.S. plot, if successful, will cripple the Mexican d

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479744480

Gary L Bridges

Gary Bridges’s previous novels (The Cuchara Chronicles, Out of Purgatory, The Wahatoya, The Footprint in the Lake, Los Huerfanos, and Sangre de Cristo) set the stage for his most recent adventure story about international intrigue and potential international disaster radiating from Cuchara, Colorado. Gary and his family first moved to Cuchara in 1985. He and his wife, Shawn, owned and operated three small businesses at the ski resort. Gary also served as controller of the resort and taught at the University of Southern Colorado, where he also served as dean of the School of Business. Shawn, a well-known artist, covered many Colorado walls with her paintings. The Bridges family moved back to San Antonio, Texas, in the year 2000 when Gary accepted a teaching position at the University of Texas–San Antonio. Gary retired from UTSA in 2014 and, once again, moved to Cuchara—this time, to be permanent residents. Shawn’s paintings now adorn the Timbers Restaurant, which serves as her gallery as well as her favorite eatery. Read about Gary’s previous novels at garylbridges.com, and peruse some of Shawn’s artworks at shawnkbridges.com.

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Copyright © 2012 by Gary L. Bridges.

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Contents

West Peak of the Wahatoyas

Fort Carson: Colorado Springs, Colorado

Fort Benning, Georgia

Fort Carson, Colorado

Tehran, Iran: November 4, 1979 to January 20, 1981

CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia

CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia

Tehran 1979

Tehran, Iran: Present Day

CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia

The Santa Domingo Ranch in Deep South Texas: Present Day

Reynosa, Mexico

CIA Headquarters: Langley, VA

Reynosa, Mexico

Fort Carson, Colorado

Tehran, Iran

CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia

La Veta, Colorado

Denver, Colorado

CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia

Near Shirkuh, Iran

McAllen, Texas

CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia

Conference Room of the Secretary of the Army: Pentagon

Pueblo, Colorado

Port of Houston, Houston Ship Channel: Houston, Texas

Charleston Air Force Base, South Carolina

Fort Sam Houston, San Antonio, Texas

Gulf of Mexico: Near The Mexican Coast

Reynosa, Mexico Border Crossing

The Port of Houston: Houston, Texas

The White House Situation Room

Deep South Texas

CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia

Houston Port: Houston, Texas

The United Nations: New York City

Reynosa, Mexico

The White House Situation Room

Colorado School of Mines: Golden, Colorado

The Guerra Family Ranch; South of Matamoros, Mexico

Near Shirkuh, Iran

The Indian Cave; Near Cuchara, Colorado

West Peak of the Wahatoyas

Willie shook his head impatiently. He didn’t like being roused so early in the morning and rushed out into the cold Colorado (barely daylight) morning air. He loved the mountain trails and had practically been born on the very trail they were about to ride. But his joints complained and he no longer had the stamina that had made him a legend in the Cuchara Valley. With a last emphatic stomp of his foot and a derisive snort, Willie stepped carefully backward to exit the trailer. His frosty breath hung suspended in the chilled morning light.

Okay, okay. I don’t like it either, groused Steve Curry. He held Willie’s reins firmly and eased the balky horse backward out of the trailer. As a Law Enforcement Officer (LEO) for the United States Forest Service, Steve was used to early mornings, urgent preparations and spur-of-the-moment forays into the unknown. This one was a little different though. Only once before could Steve remember such a sense of urgency and reticence in Mack’s voice. And after that one occasion, Steve had been shot, had almost bled to death and had helped prevent a major terrorist attack against the President and the Secretary of State at the Cuchara Wilderness Center.

Mack’s most recent early morning call echoed in Steve’s mind.

Steve, we don’t have much time so listen carefully. A DC-3 has crashed into West Peak.

The Douglas DC-3 is the civilian version of the C-47 Skymaster, the military airplane that revolutionized air transport. Over 10,000 of the twin engine aircraft were produced. It had transported troops, weapons and material to U.S. and allied forces in World War II. Hundreds or maybe thousands of these planes are still flown in various parts of the world today.

Mack continued, I’m texting you the coordinates right now. No time for questions or explanations. Time is of the essence. We need for you to get to the crash site as soon as possible and verify, first of all, that the plane is there. That’s not all, Mack continued. There may be someone waiting for the aircraft at the LaVeta airport. Get the local law out there and have them hold anyone who’s there. Let me know when you’re on site. I’ll have further instructions once you get there.

Will do, Steve replied. Shit. How am I supposed to get local law on such a flimsy excuse? At the moment there was no local law in LaVeta. Due to professional misbehavior by the most recent Town Marshall and a struggling Town Council, the city was relying on Huerfano County for emergencies. Steve knew the County Sheriff and it usually took the Brinks Robbery and Jack the Ripper together to get him to send deputies to LaVeta. So he called the Game Warden, Ronnie White and relayed his instructions. Pick them up on suspected poaching charges, he apologetically suggested when Ronnie asked him what the hell? Steve knew he could count on Ronnie, though. They had been through a lot together, including Ronnie risking his own life for Steve.

I promise we’ll cover you on this, Ronnie. Steve paused, and then continued, It’s possibly related to a terror threat. That would give Ronnie a better feel for what was at stake.

Steve knew it was serious from Mack’s tone and the lack of conversational exchange between the two. It had been all business. So Steve had thrown together a week’s supply of food and water, a sleeping bag and his weapon. You just never knew.

Steve had timed his arrival so that he and Willie could begin their climb at sunrise. Any earlier would have been dangerous. He sympathized with Willie who was going on fifteen years old and suffered after every strenuous ride. Willie was the most recent in a long line of trail horses that had served the Curry family. According to family lore, Willie’s family tree could be traced all the way back to the Ute Indians and Steve’s great-great-grandfather, Sven Curry. Willie was nearing the end of his riding days and, Steve sadly admitted, his life. Willie’s death would mark the end of a distinguished line of horses and Steve and his dad, Lane Curry, would lose one of the last living links to their family history in the Valley.

Okay, Willie. Let’s go. Steve gently nudged Willie’s flanks with his heels and Willie headed into the Canyon of Tears. Steve had learned of this short cut years ago from his dad and it would save him and Willie a couple of hours of rocky steep travel. Steve had plotted the coordinates of the crash into his GPS and knew exactly where it was. He also knew that the Canyon would allow him to be the first one there. Mack had not mentioned the possibility of unfriendly company but . . . you just never knew. Even though daylight was splayed all over the rocky, gray mountainside, West Peak still protected Steve and Willie from the direct sun. Another hour and they would be drenched in the sun’s spring rays. Steve consulted his GPS frequently as they neared their destination. Once there he dismounted and led Willie to a reasonably flat area and released him to graze. Steve knew that Mack’s coordinates would not be dead-on accurate given all the variables inherent in a plane crashing and possibly cart-wheeling and/or sliding down the side of a mountain.

Steve was standing in a grove of trees and heavy brush about two-hundred yards from the timber line. He supposed that Mack and others had gleaned their information about a crash from satellite tracking and satellite photos. Even so, they needed someone to visually verify the crash and possibly gather other intelligence and check for survivors. Steve took note of the fact that Mack had not mentioned rescue personnel being notified. He mentally shrugged as he trudged through the brush and found himself in a small opening that allowed him to view the stark mountain side for almost 360 degrees. He brought his binoculars up and peered intently as he swept the glasses over the hard, unforgiving terrain, looking for any signs of a recent impact and/or fire. There, broken tree tops. He followed an imagined line of travel if a plane had clipped the tops of trees and, yes, he could see a swath of up-heaved dirt and rock that had scoured the earth for an estimated fifty yards. Then it disappeared. Well, at least it was a starting point to begin his search. Steve headed for the apparent point of impact brushing aside the thick scrub oaks and stepping over numerous fallen pine trees. Sunlight, dappled by the towering Ponderosa pine trees, cast an eerie morning light on the forest floor. After an hour of convoluted walking, ducking, stepping over and around various obstacles, Steve arrived at what appeared to be the plane’s impact point. He could see debris scattered along the ground but no major pieces of wreckage. Always the investigator, Steve began taking photos: photos of the clipped tree tops and the swath of debris. As he approached what he thought was the end of the debris field, he realized that it continued over a rock outcropping. On closer inspection, Steve saw that a number of Aspen trees had been sheared off at ground (actually rock) level and the surface of the outcropping was heavily scoured. He lowered himself to his knees and carefully crept to the edge and peered over.

The amount and the nature of the destruction shocked him. Twisted metal, rocks, dirt and tree parts were juxtaposed against the striking beauty of the landscape. The vivid blue sky provided the backdrop as if to punctuate the deadly contradictions. Steve was momentarily transfixed. Slowly his investigative instincts took control and he began to take photos again. He wrote down the coordinates indicated by his GPS and also saved them in its memory. Because of the wreckage’s (one could no longer call it an airplane) location and orientation on an extremely steep slope, he could not just climb down for a closer look. Using the binoculars he scanned the exposed surfaces for some semblance of identifying marks: ideally the registration numbers (which probably would have been altered anyway he realized).

What am I thinking? I need to send these photos to Mack and let him and his CIA buddies figure out if this is what they think it is, Steve realized. He was one of the more adept forest service officers at using the newest communications technologies, but how and when to apply them was not always immediately obvious to him. He retrieved his satellite phone from his pack and downloaded the photos and the GPS coordinates. Within seconds, he had acquired the satellite and whisked the encrypted files to Mack. While waiting for Mack to respond, Steve reflected on his unique friendship with Mack and how it had grown over the years.

Lane Curry, Steve’s dad, had hired Mack as a private investigator some thirty years ago to investigate a suspicious offer to buy their Cuchara homestead not long after they had emigrated from San Antonio. Mack had been instrumental in discovering that the offer to buy the land and the house was wrapped around a ploy to gain control of their water rights, which were significantly more valuable than the surface property. A long-lost letter to Sven Curry, Steve’s great-great-grandfather, then led Mack to a Spanish gold coin stolen from Sven years before. The coin was part of a cache of Spanish treasure hidden in a cave behind Chaparral Falls, which was also part of their homestead. The lost gold turned out to be the real prize.

Mack had later teamed up with Lane Curry when Steve’s best friend and college room-mate, Taylor Youngblood, had asked for help on behalf of the Ute Indian Reservation in Ignacio, Colorado. Together they had uncovered a scheme to use the reservation’s casino as a front to smuggle and distribute counterfeit United States currency into the United States from North Korea. By the time the scheme was uncovered, the reservation was close to financial ruin. Lane and Steve decided that the lost (then recovered) Spanish gold could be put to better use than sitting in a dark cave and used it to financially rescue the Ute reservation.

Finally and most recently, Mack and Steve (by this time a Forest Service LEO) had worked together to ferret out and thwart a terrorist attack against the Cuchara Wilderness Center during a visit by the United States President and the Secretary of State. Steve had been shot by one of the terrorists and barely escaped with his life (the terrorist was not so fortunate). Mack had also become Steve’s mentor as Steve grew into his law enforcement career. Due to Mack’s extensive service with the U. S. Department of State’s Diplomatic Security Service as a special agent, his wide-ranging contacts in the CIA, the FBI, the NSA and various other covert agencies and his foreign contacts, Mack had been an invaluable advisor and source for Steve. Based on Steve’s quick thinking and quick action during the attempted attack on the Cuchara Wilderness Center, Steve had become a trusted outsider to certain people in certain places deep within the covert community of the United States government. Steve didn’t know about this special unspoken status. And before too long he would yearn for the days when his most troublesome problem was to accompany the Colorado State Game Warden and burst, unannounced, into a campsite of inebriated, unlicensed hunters with loaded guns.

Steve, I’m looking at your photos. There’s no question that it’s the plane in question. How hard will it be for you to get close enough to see if there are any survivors?

Steve sighed. He should have known it would get complicated.

Mack, I need a minute or two to take a closer look. I’ll get right back to you. And, yes I know, time is of the essence. It always is, Steve thought. He shucked some of his equipment so that he could climb around on his belly and negotiate the thick brush unencumbered. He never rode in the mountains without a good rope and he put it to good use as a safety harness. A thick Bristlecone pine tree provided the anchor. Due to the steep incline, Steve was half sitting and half standing as he lowered himself for a closer look at the crash site. His greatest fear was the wreckage sliding or falling and dragging him along with it. So he took extra care to stay above the wreckage or to the side of it as he surveyed the site and scouted for places he could tie onto for security. Years earlier Steve had been a member of the La Plata Search and Rescue team in Durango, Colorado while he attended Fort Lewis College. Fortunately, he had received training in high-angle rescue and recovery techniques so he felt fairly comfortable rappelling and depending upon his rope and his knots.

The bulk of the jumbled wreckage rested on a narrow rock ledge with one wing extending out into open space. The plane’s nose section appeared to be secure against the face of the rock wall. The fuselage (main cargo section) had cracked open about three feet behind the cockpit. The wings and the tail section appeared to have absorbed most of the force of the crash and subsequent slide. The plane’s center of gravity appeared to be keeping the wreckage well balanced, but it was impossible to know how much it would take to tip the entire plane over the edge. If it tumbled over into the canyon below it would become virtually inaccessible. Steve decided that he could safely lower himself onto the top of the fuselage. Once on top he could see into the cockpit and check for survivors. With a slight adjustment of his tether he could also view the inside of the fuselage. He called Mack and reported his progress and his plan.

Okay, Steve. Just one more thing, we need a report on the cargo, if any, in the plane. Can you do that safely?

Steve assured Mack that he had it figured out. He may have exaggerated how sure he was that his plan was safe. He re-tied the rope to a closer anchor tree so that he would have more length to play with once he got to the wreckage. He adjusted the rope around his butt so that it was more comfortable. He would need to put his entire weight into it for the last part of the descent before he could stand on top of the wrecked aircraft. For the first thirty feet of descent, Steve was able to half-rappel and half-walk backwards down the rock wall. For the last ten feet, Steve had to swing his body out over the edge and lower himself to the wreck. It would be one bitch of a climb when he had to pull his full body weight back up. Fortunately, the weather gods were with him and kept the treacherous mountain winds at bay as he eased himself onto the broken aircraft He let out just enough slack so that he could get on his hands and knees and stick his head through the ragged tear in the top of the fuselage. He couldn’t see into the cockpit so he did what he did not want to do and lowered himself into the belly of the airplane. If the plane shifted and slid over into the abyss of the canyon, he would not have time to extract himself. But the plane felt solidly grounded so he crept forward and stuck his head through the crunched cockpit door to see if the pilot and co-pilot were there. The two corpses were in their seats, buckled in and oblivious to the mountainous terrain they had tried to fly through.

What went wrong? Steve mused. Instrument failure? Engine failure? Attention failure? It didn’t matter now. The results were the same. Steve directed his attention to the fuselage interior. There were no passenger seats. The interior was rigged for cargo so he doubted if there had been passengers, however, he supposed that there could be a loadmaster or two or someone just hitching a ride. Why didn’t it catch fire? Steve wondered as he picked his way through the debris. He looked under several unidentifiable pieces and finally determined that there were no more bodies on board. Then he turned his attention to what looked like a long row of tall boxes covered with a gray and green tarp. The boxes appeared to have been well secured to the floor of the rear compartment, but a few rested askance and one appeared to rest on its side. Steve took out his knife and began cutting the cords that held the thick covers. It took him a few minutes to throw all of the tarps into one pile and clear the way so that he could get a look at the boxes, which turned out to be wooden pallets. The light was very poor so Steve used a small flashlight and directed its beam at the material secured to the nearest pallet. He didn’t trust what his eyes were telling his brain, so he reached out and extracted a neatly packaged handful of U.S. currency . . . one hundred-dollar bills to be exact. He directed his light over the entire pallet and confirmed that it held what was surely several hundred of the neat packages of what appeared to be brand new one hundred-dollar bills.

Holy Shit! Steve hurriedly examined all of the pallets: all twenty of them. The pallets appeared to be of equal size. He took crude measurements of one of the loaded pallets. He didn’t want to take the time to count the number of one hundred-dollar packages. He needed to tell Mack about this as soon as possible.

Mack did not sound surprised. He asked Steve pointed questions about his crude measurements and grilled him about the number of pallets and insisted that Steve reconfirm that each of the pallets contained the same amount of cargo. Only then did Mack give Steve the okay to leave the wreckage.

Call me back when you’re clear of the aircraft. We have some serious planning to do, Mack ordered.

Steve turned all of his attention to getting out of the plane’s belly without sending it over the edge and to getting back up his lifeline. A couple of things about Mack’s directions to him seemed a little strange but that would have to wait. Fortunately, Steve had enough rope to construct a crude ladder. He climbed his home-made ladder until he reached the point where the angle of the rock wall allowed him to partially climb and partially pull himself back to his starting point.

Steve gave himself a few moments to drink some water and find a comfortable place to sit. He checked on Willie, who was contentedly grazing. Willie barely noticed Steve when he patted Willie’s flank. The sun, now high in the sky, warmed Steve’s face even as a mountain breeze blew a chill across his shoulders. He basked in the place and in the moment, relishing where and who he was. I can’t wait for Mack and his cronies to splash cold water all over this moment, he thought. Little did he know.

Steve waited patiently as the satellite phone searched for and acquired the signal. He knew their conversation would be encrypted.

Steve, good job. Now comes the interesting part. Mack’s voice confirmed that he had his official hat on. This was going to be more than a fact-finding assignment. Steve could feel it. Mack continued, "The NSA (National Security Agency) has been tracking that DC-3 since it entered U.S. airspace (sans flight plan) from Canada. They and the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) are quite sure that the