Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 3

RAMPART ONE FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION,

BOULEVARD, CALIFORNIA

THE NEXT MORNING

Army National Guard Captain Ben Gray of the 1st Battalion, 185th Infantry, finished his early-morning jog along Highway 98, poured some water from a plastic bottle over his head, then took a sip. It was barely an hour after dawn, and already it had to be in the low seventies here in the deserts of southern California. In another couple hours, he guessed, the pavement would be too hot to run on.

Gray, a California Highway Patrol Academy firearms instructor who lived near Fairfield, California, was an infantry company commander with the California Army National Guard, stationed in San Jose. Running was a way of life for him ever since he tried out for cross-country in middle school. After high school graduation he enrolled at the University of the Pacific in Stockton in prelaw, but his heart really wasn’t into studying—he was meant for the outdoors. Operation Desert Shield, the buildup of troops in the Persian Gulf in response to the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, gave him a good opportunity to get out of school, so he enlisted in the California Army National Guard.

Gray quickly discovered that he didn’t want to be an enlisted man in the Army, so when he returned to the States after an eight-month deployment to the “Sandbox,” he got his degree in criminal justice, applied for and received a reserve commission, and then, at the urging of many of his comrades in the Guard, joined the California Highway Patrol. It was a perfect fit for him. He quickly advanced in rank in both the Guard and the CHP. He didn’t spend as much time as he wanted with his wife and two children back in Fairfield, but he was living the life he always wanted: two careers spent mostly outdoors, a good deal of responsibility but not unbearably so, and enough action to keep his life from getting mundane.

The place where he had stopped his jogging afforded him an excellent view of Rampart One, the small forward operating base he had been ordered to set up out here in the desert. Four days ago, Gray had led two mechanized infantry platoons, some elements of a transportation company, a security platoon, and an engineering platoon to the site about two miles south of the highway and just a few hundred meters north of the Mexican border, equidistant from the town of Boulevard, California, and the western edge of the steel border security fence around Calexico. His mission was to set up a patrol encampment to house personnel, security forces, construction crews, and aviation units for a long-term austere deployment.

Gray jogged back to his tent, showered, dressed, made his way to the mess, picked up a light breakfast of boxed cereal and a wheat roll, and went over to the commander’s table, where he found his NCO in charge, Sergeant Major Jeremy Normandin, with two of the Task Force TALON cadre. “Good morning, sir,” Normandin said, standing. “Hope you had a good jog. You get the report on the incident last night?”

“Yes. Sorry about your incident, sir, but it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“We were hoping it wouldn’t, Captain,” Major Jason Richter said somberly.

“Any word on who will conduct the investigation, sir?”

“FBI Director DeLaine herself will be coming out with investigators from the State and Justice Departments,” Jason replied.

“I’ve received their equipment and facilities requisition list and we’ll have it put together by later this afternoon, sir,” Normandin said.

“Thanks, Sergeant Major,” Gray said. To Richter: “Where’s Captain Falcone, sir?”

“Still on patrol,” Jason replied.

Gray looked as if he had swallowed a scorpion instead of a bite of his wheat roll. “Sir, SOP states that a soldier under investigation needs to be taken off duty until he’s cleared by the investigation board, even an officer on detached assignment,” he said, getting to his feet. “Besides, I think he should be receiving counseling after his incident. Being involved in a shooting incident that results in death is hard on anyone, even veterans.”

“Frank said he was ready and able to resume patrol duties, and I believe him,” Jason said. “We only have two CID pilots at this location. Besides, no investigation has formally begun. He’ll cooperate fully with the investigation board, don’t worry.”

“Is he in the same robot…er, CID unit, sir? The investigators may want to examine it during their…”

“We downloaded all of the operating data and maintenance logs right after the incident,” Ariadna Vega said.

“That might not be good enough,” Gray said worriedly. “I’m a Highway Patrolman in the real world, and we impound vehicles involved in shooting incidents until well after the investigation is over—sometimes they’re not even returned to service, depending on the…”

“This isn’t the CHP, Captain,” Jason interrupted. “This is part of the war on terror. We only have two CID units here at Rampart One and we couldn’t afford to ground it. I don’t take soldiers off the line because they engage and kill the enemy…do you?”

“No, sir, unless an investigation board has been convened,” Gray said, matching Richter’s glare with one of his own. “There’s an investigation board on the way, so I would have pulled Falcone off the line in anticipation of the start of the investigation. It’s just my advice and opinion, that’s all. You’re in charge of the task force.”

“I appreciate your concern over the political and legal problems we might encounter because of this incident, Captain,” Jason went on, “but until I receive orders to the contrary, we continue with our mission.” He looked at Gray’s concerned face, then added, “Captain Falcone will be off-duty when he returns—he will remain here at Rampart One until the investigation board releases him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jason checked his watch. “Captain Falcone should be returning any minute now,” he said. “I’m going out to the recovery pad to meet him.”

“I’ll tag along if you don’t mind, sir,” Gray said. “I’ll grab us some water—it’s going to be a hot one today.” He and Normandin got up and followed Richter and Vega out of the mess tent and into the bright sunshine.

The Rampart One FOL, or forward operating location, was approximately forty acres in area, surrounded by electronic intrusion detection sensors and canine patrols instead of fences to save on setup time and cost. The mess tent was in the unit area, which included offices, barracks, and equipment and supply storage. The tents were standard desert TEMPER units—highly portable tents that used lightweight aluminum frames instead of center and side poles to make it easier to erect; they provided more interior space. The tops of the military personnel tents were covered with thin flexible silicone solar cells that change sunlight into electricity and were stored in batteries to power ventilation fans and lights.

“How often do you get supplies out here, Captain Gray?” Ari asked.

“Call me Ben, Dr. Vega.”

“Only if you call me Ari, Ben,” Ari responded with one of her patented man-killing smiles.

“Deal.” Jason noticed with a smile that Gray was already hooked, landed, gutted, and filleted. “Once a day right now, Ari, but when we start getting some detainees here and the ops tempo picks up I’m sure it’ll increase. I figure five hundred people here max, a minimum of eight liters of water each per day, plus water for the mess halls, showers, and maintenance areas—that’s a minimum of two large tankers of potable water, or a tractor-trailer full of bottled water; plus a tanker of diesel for the generators and a tanker of Jet-A for the aircraft, per week. Add in rations for five hundred persons, spare parts, equipment—I figure two convoys a week, with four tankers and one to two tractor-trailers of supplies and equipment each. Half our manpower goes toward logistics and security for all this stuff.”

They approached an area with a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. It was the detention facility, a complex of fences and tents to house migrants caught illegally crossing the border. He had seen the facility just last night, but it seemed as if the detainee population had doubled since then. “Man, I thought it would take a month or two to reach our maximum capacity—now it looks like it’ll only take a few more days,” he remarked. “We’ve only been open for business for three days!”

The detention facility had twelve TEMPER units set up, the same tent structures as the unit area. Each thirty-two-foot TEMPER unit housed sixteen individuals on cots; the plans called for sixteen TEMPER units at Rampart One. Access between units was strictly controlled with chain-link fence, so detainees entered and exited from the front of each unit only. In back of the tents was a fenced yard for basketball and soccer. Beside the exercise yard was a twelve-bed field medical clinic, a legal services tent, a small chapel, and a community latrine for men and women. Portable ballpark lights illuminated the compound at night.

Ariadna Vega definitely appeared uncomfortable looking around the place. “Pretty miserable, isn’t it?” she remarked.

“I’ve seen worse, Ari,” Gray said. “The TEMPER units are air-conditioned. The detainees will get three squares a day, water, and medical care while they’re being processed; the kids will get free education; they’ll have access to legal aid. We try to make them as comfortable as possible while they’re here.”

“I don’t see very much privacy.”

“No, I guess not,” Gray said. “This is a detention facility, not a hotel. I’ve done the best I could here with the tools I’m given.”

“I don’t mean you’re not doing enough, Ben,” Ari said apologetically. “It’s just…well, I’ve never been exposed to any of this before.”

“This is light-years better than what we had in Kuwait during Desert Storm,” Gray said. “I would’ve killed for a chance to wash my hair once a week then—here, the detainees can take a shower once a day if they like. The tents we had then were for shit—we couldn’t keep the sand out no matter how hard we tried to seal things up. These TEMPERs are pretty tight.”

They moved on to the next section of the detention facility. There were about two dozen chain-link cells with a cot, a “honey bucket” with a toilet seat, and a small open table next to the cot—no privacy whatsoever. The pens were covered with a large tent, which afforded a little protection against the sun and wind. There was also an open shower station with a few fiberglass shower stalls. Fifteen of the twenty-four stalls were occupied. “This area is for the violent or uncooperative detainees or any criminal suspects,” Gray explained. “Security is a big concern, which is why these cells are completely open. We’re hoping just the sight of these facilities will induce detainees to cooperate once they’re in custody.”

“Where are the gunmen from last night?” Jason asked.

“The two injured migrants were transported to the Border Patrol lockup in San Diego,” Gray said. “Imperial County Sheriff’s Department took the body of the dead migrant to El Centro; it’ll be turned over to the FBI later this morning.”

“Those cells are little more than damned dog-pens!” Ariadna suddenly blurted out disgustedly. “They remind me of the cages at Guantanamo Bay when the terrorist prison was first set up.”

Now Ben Gray was starting to look perturbed at Ariadna’s reactions. “I guess they’re pretty substandard to your way of thinking, Dr. Vega,” he said stonily, “but we put only the worst of the worst here. It’s not meant to be comfortable—it’s meant to keep the bad ones away from the other detainees and to keep our personnel safe until they can be put into the justice system.”

“Ben, I didn’t mean…”

“We’re in the middle of the desert out here, Dr. Vega,” Gray interrupted. “I’ve been given a tough job and not a lot of time to do it in, and if I may say so myself my men and I have done a pretty damned fine job putting this FOL together. If it doesn’t meet with your approval, then I suggest you take your suggestions or comments up the chain of command.”

“As you were, Captain,” Jason said. “Ariadna is just reacting out loud—she’s not commenting on the good job you and your men have done out here.”

“That’s right, Ben,” Ari said. “I’m sorry.” Gray nodded coldly at her, unsure whether to accept her apology or not.

Jason looked at his watch, thanking the powers that be that it was almost time to meet the arriving team members—things were already getting pretty tense here. He wisely took the lead toward the clearing on the north side of the compound, which he knew would allow Gray and Vega to walk together. Ari took the opportunity given her by her longtime friend and partner and touched Ben Gray’s BDU sleeve: “Hey, Ben, I’m really sorry.”

“Forget it, Dr. Vega.”

“I can tell you’re hurting too,” she said. He turned halfway to her and gave her an irritated scowl. “The last thing I think you wanted to do in the Guard is build and run a detention camp, and here I come criticizing your mission.”

“I do what I’m ordered to do,” Gray said. “I don’t have any expectations or preferences—I do the job I’m assigned to the best of my abilities.”

Ari trotted up to catch up, walking closely beside him. “That’s it?” she asked gently.

“What do you mean, ‘That’s it?’ What else is there?”

“I want to know how you feel about imprisoning foreigners in a place like this, out in the middle of nowhere in conditions hardly suited to farm animals, let alone human beings,” Ari said. “Is this the America you swore to protect and defend?”

“It is now, Ari,” Gray said perturbedly. “Listen, they know it’s illegal to cross the borders at other than established crossing points…”

“Maybe they do, but they do it just for a chance to work, to make better lives for themselves…”

“The ‘why’ is just a mitigating factor, Ari—they’re still doing something illegal,” Gray said. “The ‘why’ doesn’t excuse their actions, only lessens their punishment and allows them greater consideration. The reason why that entire detention facility isn’t one big set of chain-link dog-pens is that few illegal aliens are like the ones that murdered those Border Patrol agents.”

“But we’re treating every illegal migrant the same when we throw them into facilities like this, aren’t we?” Ari asked. “The vast majority of migrants are peaceful, God-fearing, law-abiding persons…”

“But they’re not ‘law-abiding’—the reason we’re out here is because they’re breaking the law!” Gray argued. “They’re crossing our borders without permission, which in the United States is against the law. I’m a soldier, Ari. I swore to defend my country against all enemies, foreign or domestic…”

“They are not the enemy, Ben—the terrorists and murderers are.”

“But the terrorists, murderers, and the migrants looking for work are all doing the same thing: crossing the borders of the United States without regard for the law or of national sovereignty,” Gray interjected. “The migrants may not be a threat to the United States, but until we get a crystal ball that can tell us which ones are the workers and which ones are the terrorists, we need to stop all of them before the bad guys kill again.”

Gray stopped and turned to Ariadna. “You say I might have doubts about this mission, Ari, but you sure as hell do!” he said. “If you’re so bugged about doing this job, why don’t you just resign? It’s as if you’re trying to soothe your own conscience by indicting everyone else around you.”

Vega didn’t answer—which gave Jason Richter a chance to step over to the two and interject: “Is there an issue here, kids? If there is, let’s lay it out right now.” Neither of them said a word. “I promise, if either of you has a problem accomplishing this mission, I’ll see to it you’re reassigned, and there will be no repercussions whatsoever.”

“No problem here, sir,” Gray said flatly.

“I’m fine, J,” Ari said in a low voice.

Jason looked at them both carefully, then clasped them both on their shoulders. “Be thankful Ray Jefferson isn’t out here—he’d have you both for breakfast. Let’s go.”

The landing pad was simply a circular patch of desert about a half mile in diameter that had been cleared away, leveled, and covered with fiberglass mats to keep down blowing dust and debris. In the center of the circle was a retractable aluminum tower about fifty feet high, secured in place with guy wires. Off to the side of the dirt circle was a Humvee with a small satellite dish and various other antennae on top. Nearby was a transportable helicopter hangar constructed of tubular aluminum trusses and covered with thin, lightweight Kevlar; another slightly smaller hangar served as a maintenance and storage facility. The tanker with supplies of jet fuel and diesel were parked nearby, along with banks of wheeled generators.

A few minutes later both Gray and Ariadna received a message from the security patrols that their Condor aircraft was inbound, and they watched the task force’s surveillance aircraft come in for its approach. From a distance it looked like a huge bird of prey coming in at them, and even up close it resembled an enormous seagull or eagle. It approached very quickly, a lot faster than Gray had ever seen a blimp travel. The thing was immense, with over a 120-foot wingspan. The wings curved upward from the body at least twenty feet, then curved downward again to the wingtips, then upward again at the very tip. It had a large propeller engine under each wing but was whisper-quiet, again unlike any blimp Gray had ever encountered. It had a long forward fuselage section, like a goose’s outstretched neck, and a broad flat tail with long angled winglets at the tips. The fuselage was smooth, but as it got closer several camera ports and doors could clearly be seen.

But the most amazing thing was not the Condor’s size or shape but its maneuverability. It came from the north-northwest at around sixty miles an hour, but as it approached the landing pad it made a tight, steeply banked turn to the west, directly into the wind, and all of its forward velocity seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye. When it was heading west right at the telescoping docking mast, it was going barely two miles an hour, and it nosed in precisely on a large electromagnetic docking attach point on the mast. Hovering overhead, the immense craft looked like a cross between a graceful seagull drifting on an ocean breeze…and a Klingon battle cruiser.

“That thing is just amazing,” Gray exclaimed as he watched the immense airship dock itself. “Did you guys invent it?”

“It’s been around for a few years as an experimental FEBA cruise missile radar platform,” Ariadna said.

“Why not just use a regular blimp?” he asked.

“With carbon-fiber skin and structures, the Army was able to create an airship that did away with the typical blimp shape body,” Ari replied. “Regular blimps are very susceptible to winds and have a huge frontal area, making them slow and not very stealthy. The shape of the Condor allows it to use air currents for propulsion, much like a sailboat sails against the wind—in fact, the stronger the winds aloft, the faster she flies. The Condor is almost twice as fast as any other blimp, its radar cross-section is a thousand times less than a blimp, it’s far more maneuverable, and its payload is just as much as a large blimp while using less helium. This baby can carry almost two thousand pounds of sensors or personnel, fly as high as ten thousand feet aboveground, and stay aloft for almost two days.”

“It was originally designed to carry infrared sensors and an airborne radar to detect low-flying aircraft like cruise missiles,” Jason went on. “It’s even fairly safe from small-arms ground fire—you might be able to take out an engine, but the Condor would probably survive the hit. It can fly just fine on one engine and return itself back to base with communications severed.”

“Well, it’s very cool,” Gray said. He looked up, studying the immense underside of the huge airship. “It provides great shade too. It…”

At that moment, a hatch opened up on the belly of the center fuselage of the Condor airship…and a figure dropped through it. Before Gray could do anything but gasp in surprise, the figure hit the dusty ground…still standing, as if it had stepped off a porch step instead of jumping out of an airship hovering fifty feet overhead. The CID unit stepped over to Jason Richter and saluted. “CID One reporting in, sir,” an electronic voice said.

“You like making an entrance in that thing, don’t you, Falcon?” Richter commented, returning the robot’s salute.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Falcone replied. “It’s the only time these days that I feel like I’ve got a working body.” He stepped over to the Humvee at the edge of the landing area, dismounted from the CID unit, plugged it into the diagnostics and repair computers on the Humvee, and walked back to the others. “What’s the latest on the incident last night, sir?” he asked Richter.

“Director DeLaine will be in later on today with whoever Justice, State, and the Pentagon chose to be on the board,” Jason replied. “You’ll be grounded from now on until the investigation board kicks you free. Don’t talk to anyone except Ari and me about the incident until the board tells you differently. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

They walked away from the landing zone as the retractable docking mast lowered the Condor airship to ground level and maintenance crews began converging on it to do checks and refuel it. Falcone accepted a bottle of cold water from Jason and drained it in one chug. “How are you holding up, Falcon?”

“Okay, I guess,” Falcone replied. “I appreciate the opportunity to go back out in the field after what happened—I’d hate to be cooped up in my rack just lying there thinking about it.” He looked at Gray and added, “I know they’re probably going to say it wasn’t a good idea, me going back out on patrol.”

“They didn’t say, so I made the decision,” Jason said. They reached the tent complex used by Task Force TALON and the Army National Guard as their headquarters. “You have nothing to worry about,” Jason went on. “That migrant was shooting at you. That’s enough reason for you to go on the attack. Your use of force was totally and completely appropriate and justified…”

“We’ll be the judge of that, Major Richter,” a voice from inside the tent said. Jason was surprised to see the large TEMPER complex nearly filled with people, some in suits and ties. The voice came from an older woman who wore jeans, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a hiker’s vest. Jason caught a glimpse of a gun in a holster at her waist.

“Who are you?”

“Annette J. Cass, U.S. Attorney, southern district of California,” the woman replied. She unclipped an ID wallet from her belt and showed him her badge and ID card.

“I wasn’t advised of your arrival, Miss Cass,” Jason said. “I apologize for not meeting you.” She snapped the ID away before Jason could look it over and replaced it on her belt beside her gun holster. He smiled, trying not to look annoyed at having the ID snatched away before he could look at it, then extended his hand; Cass glared at his hand, obviously not expecting it, before accepting his greeting. He motioned to the others in the tent behind Cass. “And these nice folks?”

“Deputy Director Marta Fields from the San Diego office of the U.S. Border Patrol; Deputy Director Thomas Lombard of the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement in San Diego; Mr. Armando Ochoa, deputy consul general for investigation for the Mexican consulate in San Diego; plus some officers from the U.S. Marshals Service.” Cass noticed Jason’s eyes narrow when she mentioned the name of the deputy consul general, and she smiled knowingly.

“I wish you’d made an appointment first, Miss Cass,” Jason said. “As you can see, we’re in the middle of a shift change…”

“I’m handling the investigation of the incident last night. I’ll expect your full cooperation, Major Richter,” Cass interrupted. She looked at Vega and Falcone suspiciously, as if already deciding who was guilty and who was innocent. “I want to talk with Captain Falcone right away so he can give us a complete statement on the events of last night; all other personnel on duty last night will need to give us statements; and I want all operating data and recordings from last night from all of your Cybernetic Infantry Devices. Naturally all of your task force activities here will be suspended until further notice.”

“Naturally—as soon as I get proper orders,” Jason said.

Cass turned her green eyes on him and impaled him with an impatient, angry expression. “I just gave you your orders, Major Richter…”

“You gave me lots of orders, Miss Cass, but I’m not authorized to follow any of them.”

“What did you just say?” Cass asked in a clearly threatening tone. “Major Richter, let me get this straight: are you refusing to comply with my instructions?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Miss Cass,” Jason said.

“Do you have any idea what the penalty is for obstruction of justice, Major? Try five years in prison and up to a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar fine. Your career would be over.”

“Miss Cass, you’re not in my chain of command, and I’m not in yours,” Jason said. “Your orders are worthless on this installation without authorization from my superior officers.”

“You’re acting like a man with something to hide, Major,” Cass said. “Are you trying to hide something? You do realize I’m here on official business?”

“You’re not conducting an investigation here, Miss Cass—this is a plain old shakedown,” Jason said. “Besides, you didn’t even say the magic word, ‘please.’ So you’ve just worn out your welcome. You should all just pack up and get off my installation, right now.”

“You’re making a big mistake, Major,” Cass said. “I’m giving you one last warning: obey my instructions or find yourself under arrest.” She turned to the group of persons behind her. “Deputy Director Lombard and the U.S. marshals will secure this facility and begin my investigation. If you or any of your personnel do not cooperate, they’ll be forced to take more drastic action.”

“Miss Cass, the fact that you showed up here without any prior notice tells me that not only do you not have authority over me, but you initiated this visit on your own without any authorization from anyone—not even the Department of Justice,” Jason said. He half-turned to Falcone and said, “Captain Falcone, make a note of the time, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Falcone said, surreptitiously checking the device strapped to his wrist.

“Dr. Vega, I would like you to call the White House from the secure radio in the command vehicle,” Jason went on. “Advise them of the situation here and ask for instructions.”

“Sure, J,” Ariadna said a little worriedly, turning and heading for the exit.

“You’re not going anywhere, Dr. Vega. Director Lombard.” The ICE director motioned, and two men wearing black BDUs, black bulletproof vests emblazoned with the letters “U.S. MARSHAL” on the front, Kevlar helmets, and carrying suppressed MP-5 submachine guns quickly stepped forward to block the tent exit. “You’ve forced me to take drastic action, Major Richter. No one leaves, and no one makes any calls until I say so.”

“What do you think you’re doing, Miss Cass—trying to start a fight in here?” Jason asked. He wore a slight smile as he casually put his hands behind his back. “Why the guns? Aren’t we all on the same side?”

“I will get your cooperation, Major, any way I must,” Cass said seriously. “I heard how you treat those in authority, especially federal law enforcement agents, and it won’t happen here. You could have done this the easy way. You want to be treated like an adversary, like you have something to hide—fine, you will be.” The U.S. marshals took Jason’s and Ariadna’s sidearms away from them. “Now let’s all go into your office, Major, while Director Lombard begins his interview with Captain Falcone. You will call in all of the personnel involved in last night’s incident and have them report to us here immediately. I want your records, logs, technical data, and downloads from your robots, and I want them in the next five minutes or I will take this entire camp apart piece by piece until I find them.”

“Five minutes?” Jason remarked, smiling. “I think we can have something for you a lot sooner than that. Captain?”

“Ready when you are, sir,” Falcone said.

“Show Miss Cass what we have.”

“Roger that, sir.” Hidden behind Richter, Falcone pressed a button on his wrist device…

…and seconds later the top of the TEMPER module they were standing in ripped open, and one of the Cybernetic Infantry Devices peered inside. “Everyone freeze and drop your weapons!” a machine’s electronic voice shouted. The CID unit immediately grabbed the marshals who were carrying weapons—one agent was grabbed by the upper arm, the other by his left shoulder. Both officers screamed in pain and terror as they were hauled up off their feet.

“What in hell…!” Lombard cried out, immediately reaching for his sidearm.

“No!” Jason said, still smiling. “No guns! It will detect guns and…”

But it was far too late. No sooner had Director Lombard’s gun cleared his holster than the CID unit walked quickly through the nylon side of the TEMPER module and swung the captured marshals at Lombard, knocking him off his feet. The CID unit kept moving forward until Lombard was pinned against the other side of the module, unable to move his hands or arms, with the two U.S. marshals dangling painfully in midair above him.

Falcone found Lombard’s sidearm on the deck, unloaded it, and stuck it into a flight-suit pocket, while Jason and Ari retrieved their sidearms and the FBI agent’s submachine guns, unloaded them, and tossed them aside. “CID One, drop your captives,” he ordered. The CID unit’s armored fingers opened, and the marshals clambered to the floor of the ruined TEMPER module beside Lombard, holding dislocated and bruised arms and shoulders. “Ari, go get a doctor and a couple security guys to help these clowns. CID One, back up ten meters and assume weapon guard position.”

“Major Richter, are you insane?” Annette Cass shouted. “You just attacked three federal agents!”

Jason moved forward quickly and snatched Cass’s weapon from her holster—she was plainly too shocked to even notice her weapon was gone. He unloaded it and tossed it aside. “And you walked on to a TALON firebase and had the balls to draw down on us? You’re the insane one, Miss Cass. We’re in an area already known for heavy terrorist activity, possibly including the Consortium—the CID units are programmed to respond to all armed threats with maximum force. You’re lucky CID One used their whole bodies as bludgeons and not just their limbs.”

“J, more company,” Ari radioed. “Two choppers inbound, about a mile out.”

“Any identification?”

“Nope.”

“Where’s the Condor?”

“I ordered them to launch the Condor immediately,” she replied. “They’ll maintain surveillance on the base and send imagery to Cannon.” Cannon Air Force Base, near Clovis, New Mexico, was the home base of Task Force TALON.

“Good.” To Falcone, he said, “Falcon, mount up. Get behind those choppers and take them down if they attack.”

“I don’t have any weapons, boss—how am I supposed to take them down?”

“Think of something—jump on them, toss a cactus at them, distract them—just do it, Falcon.” Falcone immediately ordered CID One to assume the pilot-up stance, and he was inside the robot and moving in less than thirty seconds, racing across the desert out of sight. “Captain Gray, you expecting anyone?” Jason asked the Rampart One commander.

“Negative,” Gray replied. He was still breathless and bug-eyed from the sudden and incredibly lightning-quick flurry of activity that had just occurred right in front of his eyes. “Any inbounds are supposed to get clearance from me or Top first through your headquarters or the White House.”

“That’s the FBI, Richter!” Cass exploded. “They’re here to start the investigation on the death of that migrant last night! Are you hallucinating or are you on some kind of power trip?”

Jason ignored her. “Gray, take the injured to the infirmary and the rest to the dog-pens and lock them up…”

“That consulate officer too?”

“The consulate officer too—until he can be positively ID’d, as far as I’m concerned, he’s Consortium,” Jason said. “Have the rest of your men on full alert until we figure out what’s going on.” Gray issued orders to the physician, medics, and security forces that arrived moments later, and Cass and the others that were with her were hustled out. Jason keyed the mike button on his radio: “Ari…”

“They’re coming in pretty slow, J,” she radioed from her command Humvee near the Condor airship’s landing pad. “Staying in formation…about a half-mile out…slowing even more. Looks like they’re starting to circle the perimeter. Wait…I see crests on the sides of both choppers. One looks like an FBI patch…confirmed, and I can see the letters FBI on the tail. The other says U.S. BORDER PATROL on the side. They look like the real deal, J.”

“TALON One, Rampart One,” Ben Gray radioed a moment later. “Top just got a call from one of those choppers. The caller on board says she’s FBI Director DeLaine. She apologized for not calling in first and is requesting permission to land. They gave the proper authentication.”

Jason finally let out a nervous sigh of relief and holstered his own sidearm. “Let them in, Captain,” he said wearily. On his command radio, he said, “CID One, stay out of sight until we verify everyone’s ID out here.”

“Wilco,” Falcone responded.

“Ari, better get on the horn and tell Jefferson what’s been going on,” Jason said.

“I’m already on the line with him, J,” Ariadna said. “He doesn’t sound too pissed. He’s calling the Justice Department and Homeland Security now.”

“Swell,” Jason muttered.

“TALON One, Rampart One, do you want me to release Cass and the others?” Ben Gray radioed.

“Negative,” Jason responded.

“But we’ve got them in the dog-pens…”

“Let them cool their heels in your holding cells for a few more minutes,” Jason said as he headed out to the landing pad. “I’ll meet you over there in a few.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

The two helicopters’ rotors were winding down and all of the passengers were standing on the landing pad mats when Jason stepped over to them. FBI Director Kelsey DeLaine went over to greet him. “Hiya, Jason,” she said cheerfully, giving him a firm, friendly handshake and a hug. She was dressed for action with a black nylon FBI jacket over a black T-shirt and bulletproof vest, black boots, BDU pants, an FBI ball cap, and a Beretta pistol in a holster. Jason saw a lot of energy in her step and in her smile and was pleased that Washington hadn’t erased her genuine love for her profession. “Nice to see you again.” She looked around. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“Some folks from the U.S. Attorney’s office in San Diego, maybe someone from Immigration and Customs Enforcement,” Kelsey said. She noticed him looking questioningly at her. “They haven’t arrived yet?”

“They’re here.”

“They didn’t tell you we were coming? The security guy on the radio said we needed clearance to land first.”

“They didn’t mention you were coming. They didn’t mention they were coming.” He turned to look at the people coming off the second helicopter. “Who are they?”

“Investigators from Customs and Border Protection and some Spanish interpreters,” Kelsey said. “We’re participating in the preliminary investigation on Frank’s incident last night.” Kelsey was the cocommander of Task Force TALON when it was first organized less than a year earlier, and she was very familiar with its personnel, weapons, and tactics. “This visit should have been cleared last night or early this morning through the Justice Department. You received no word of our arrival?”

“I heard you were on your way to the West Coast to look into the incident here, but we received no requests for clearances and had no idea who was coming, or when.”

“Well, it was pretty short notice—there must’ve been some snafu in communications along the line,” Kelsey said, now sounding a little perplexed. “An assistant from the U.S. Attorney’s Office assured me that all of the notifications had been made, through the White House as well as directly with the CO here; we didn’t want to run into one of your monster blimps or get shot down by a ray gun or something. I should’ve checked myself.” She looked at Jason carefully. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Jason, but I still recognize that ‘cat with the canary in its mouth’ look of yours. What happened?”

“Follow me.”

Kelsey muttered something that Jason couldn’t quite catch in the subsiding whine of the helicopters’ turbine engines. She scanned the little base as she followed him toward the detention area.

“Jason, I’m not going to like whatever you’ve got to show me, am I?” Kelsey asked.

“Probably not.”

“Uh, Miss Director…?” one of Kelsey’s bodyguards stammered. “Those persons in the small prisoner cells over there…is that who I think it is…?”

“Jee…sus,” Kelsey exclaimed when she saw Annette Cass kneeling on the plywood floor in the middle of one of the dog-pen detention cells, her hands secured behind her with plastic handcuffs. “Jason, what in hell is going on here? Do you know who that is?”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do! That’s Annette Cass, the U.S. Attorney for the southern district of California! What is she doing in that…that cage? Get her out of there immediately!”

Jason motioned to Gray, who unlocked the door to the chain-link cell and bent to help Cass up, but she pushed his hand away. “She and the others entered my base without permission and took away our weapons at gunpoint,” Jason said.

“Jason, are you crazy? Did they show ID?” Kelsey didn’t wait for a response, but hurried over to the detention cells, retrieving her ID and badge, showing it to Gray and his security guards, and then looping it atop her bulletproof vest so anyone could see it. “Open these cells immediately!” Gray looked over at Richter. “Don’t look at him, Captain! I gave you a direct order—open those cells!”

“I want him arrested!” Cass shouted as soon as she joined the others. “I want Richter and all of his personnel arrested right now, I want my people released, and I want this base shut down immediately! I am going to put you away for twenty years for unlawful detention, false imprisonment, and abuse of power, Richter! Director DeLaine, you saw what he did to us!” She pointed at one of the other cells. “He even locked up an official from the Mexican consulate! This is going to create an international incident! This is a complete violation of international law and treaties…”

“Annette, calm down…” Kelsey tried.

“‘Calm down’? This Army officer attacked and nearly killed three federal agents with one of his robots, then handcuffed us and locked us in those pens! He’s out of control, and I’m ordering you to arrest him!”

Kelsey’s mouth hardened into a line. “That’s enough, Annette,” she said testily. “You can’t order me to arrest anyone, let alone an Army officer on an Army installation, and you know it. I didn’t observe any laws being broken…”

“He put me and my agents in those cells for no reason…!”

“The commander of an Army installation is allowed to put anyone on his base in his brig for any reason he deems necessary”—she looked over at Jason suspiciously, then added—“as long as it was absolutely necessary. He’ll have to answer for his actions to his superior officer, which right now happens to be the President of the United States.” She looked over at the detention cells. “And you say that’s someone from the Mexican consulate? What’s he doing here? You never said anything about bringing someone from the consulate!”

“He heard that Mexican citizens were being detained out here, and he demanded to see them,” Cass said. “I agreed to allow him to accompany me.”

“You never told me this,” Kelsey said. “And what happened to getting us all clearances to come here? My two helicopters didn’t have clearance to land!”

“Is that what Richter said? I wouldn’t believe a word he says!”

“Annette, I didn’t ask the major for confirmation—I asked my office in San Diego to verify our clearances from Homeland Security and the Army, the people who should have received your request to visit the base,” Kelsey said. “They said the request was just received this morning and hadn’t been processed because it was incomplete. I only landed here because I contacted the Attorney General directly myself when I learned we didn’t have proper clearance. What’s going on here?”

“Homeland Security delayed my clearance and told me to resubmit my application to visit this base,” Cass argued. “I found that unacceptable. Any delay in getting here would’ve compromised evidence in our investigation and given Major Richter here time to coach or coerce witnesses…”

“‘Coerce witnesses?’” Jason retorted. “I’m not coercing anyone…”

“Now order Richter to release the consulate official and my men before there’s hell to pay, Director DeLaine,” Cass insisted, “or the next call I make will be to the Attorney General himself.”

Jason could see Kelsey’s jaw tighten. “Miss Cass, that’s the second time you’ve ordered me to do something,” Kelsey said, pulling out her cell phone. “I don’t know how you do things in your district, but in the FBI we have procedures, and I’m not going to violate them just because you order it.” Into her phone, she said, “John, this is Kelsey. I’m here at Rampart One…yes, the Army migrant reconnaissance base, in California…you’ve already received a call from the AG and from Homeland Security? I see. What’s the word?” She listened for a few moments, then said, “Understood. Later.”

“Well?”

“Major Richter, release all of Miss Cass’s personnel immediately…” Kelsey said stonily.

“About time!” Cass remarked.

“…and then escort her and her entourage off the base,” Kelsey added, impaling Cass with an angry glare. “Turns out Miss Cass did not receive proper clearance to enter the base unannounced, although the Army should have done more to verify her identity and official business and reasonably accommodate her requests. Turns out the holdup was your demand to bring someone from the Mexican consulate with you. That request was forwarded to the State Department, and…”

“Miss Director, a Mexican citizen was killed last night by one of Richter’s robots—the same one, I believe, operated by the officer, that attacked my marshals,” Cass said. “Someone from the consulate deserves to be present during this investigation…”

“The incident happened on U.S. soil, Annette,” Kelsey said. “The Mexican government does have a right to get involved—after our investigation has concluded, or at least after our investigation has begun. Whoever does the investigation has the duty to keep the Mexican government informed to the fullest extent of the law.”

“I wasn’t notified that my office was going to head the investigation, so I…”

“I’m not positive, Annette, but I don’t think this is your jurisdiction.”

“Not my jurisdiction? That’s crazy! I’m the U.S. Attorney for southern California! If it’s not me, who’s going to do it?”

“The Department of Homeland Security,” Kelsey said. “If they need any forensic help from the FBI or warrant authority from the U.S. Attorneys’ Office, they’ll ask; otherwise they handle it themselves.”

“But what if there are criminal charges…?”

“Those will be referred to your office if the suspects are not subject to the Uniform Code of Military Justice,” Kelsey said. “Otherwise the Army handles it.” She looked at Cass carefully, then added, “The State Department says it received no request from the Mexican consulate or embassy for any consulate officials or staffers to accompany you to this base, Miss Cass.”

“I have the authority to bring along anyone I choose, including members of any foreign consulate in my district,” Cass argued, “and consular officers have the right to make requests to travel as observers and go anywhere they like in the United States, especially on official business involving their citizens.”

“I think the State Department and Attorney General may disagree with you, Miss Cass—that’s not my department,” Kelsey said. “But your conduct during this entire escapade of yours is starting to look more and more suspicious. A no-notice arrival with armed U.S. marshals and a Mexican consular official in tow? What were you trying to do, Miss Cass—shut down an entire Army base before anyone could stop you?”

“This is not an Army base, DeLaine—this is an illegal Army prison,” Cass retorted, going over to help Lombard as he crawled painfully out of his cage, “locking up innocent civilians without due process and terrorizing people on both sides of the border with birds-of-prey airships and armored robots!”

“This base belongs to the Army National Guard and the Department of Homeland Security…”

“…and it’s in my federal district, and it has civilians in federal custody, which brings it under my jurisdiction,” Cass interjected just as angrily. “All federal law enforcement matters in the southern district of California come under my review, and capturing and detaining suspected illegal immigrants is a law enforcement issue. And if there are Mexican nationals being detained here, consular officials have every right to meet with and speak to their fellow citizens, ascertain their medical, physical, legal, and political status, and ensure that all of their rights as Mexican citizens and American detainees are being preserved.”

Kelsey fell silent—it was difficult, if not impossible, to argue with her reasoning. It was obvious that Cass thought she had gained at least an ideological advantage here, even though she was the one leaving. “We’re not done here, Major Richter,” she said. The two marshals, their arms and shoulders heavily bandaged, were escorted to waiting military ambulances while Cass’s dark blue government Suburbans were brought for her. “You can’t trample on the Constitution in my district like you did in San Francisco and Washington and get away with it. I’m going to see to it that you and your jack-booted storm troopers are removed from here, pronto.”

“Sheesh, who peed in her cornflakes this morning?” Jason remarked as Cass and the other federal officials departed down the dusty access road.

“Jason, this thing is just getting started, and already we’ve got Americans battling each other,” Kelsey said. “A little more restraint might be in order here.”

“I hear you, Kelsey,” Jason said, “but I’ve got my orders too, and they come right from the White House. The argument over who has jurisdiction is way above my pay grade. I was ordered to build reconnaissance and operations firebases, keep the border region under surveillance, and detain anyone illegally crossing the border, in support of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. I’m not saying people like Cass are right or wrong, or what we’re doing is right or wrong—but I’ve got a job to do and superior officers to report to, and they do not include U.S. Attorney Annette Cass, the U.S. Marshals Service, or anyone from the Mexican consulate.”

“Well, we’re all on the same side here—you might consider thinking twice before siccing your robots on fellow Americans, especially federal agents.”

“I know no one will believe me, Kel,” Jason said earnestly, “but I thought you were all Consortium, I swear to God. She came here unannounced with guys in bulletproof vests and submachine guns, and minutes later two helicopters swoop in. I thought we were goners.” Kelsey could tell that Richter was being absolutely serious—she never questioned his feelings. She wasn’t quite sure, but she thought she saw a little unexpected paleness in his face, and he swallowed nervously. “I never realized how vulnerable we are out here, Kel. They walked onto this base with guns and badges and no one even radioed us to tell us they were here. Maybe I panicked a little. Even when I saw their IDs, I felt…defensive, like I didn’t do enough to watch my own back. I guess I got…”

“Scared? Hey, Jason, you have no idea how many times I was scared, working on the Task Force TALON, working in the FBI. You lose tactical control, even for a moment, and all you want to do is react, do something, until you get it back.” She felt a sudden wave of concern wash over her consciousness, and without thinking she took his hand—and found it cold and clammy. “It’s okay, Jason,” she said gently. “It’s over.”

“TALON wasn’t made to guard a base or stay in one place—we’re hunters, not rent-a-cops,” Jason said bitterly. “As long as TALON is here, we’re sitting ducks for the Consortium. TALON was successful against the Consortium because we were aggressive and offensive—we took the fight to them. Here, they don’t have to hunt us—they know exactly where we are, and they can take all the time they want planning an attack.”

Richter’s hands were subconsciously clenched into fists, and his voice was shaking with anger. “This will not happen again, Kelsey—I swear it,” Jason went on adamantly. “I don’t care who it is—federal agents, illegals, or terrorists—I will not allow this task force to work with its hands tied behind its back, anywhere, but especially on American soil.”

“Ease up, Major,” Kelsey said, her voice firm. “This is not a personal crusade, and Task Force TALON is not alone out here. You’re part of a team—start working like it.”

“That’s what I’m doing here, Miss Director…”

“By having Falcone inside a CID unit grab two U.S. marshals and use them to club down another federal agent?” She didn’t like Jason suddenly turning sarcastically formal on her, but he had it coming—he was still acting like Task Force TALON was his own private personal boys’ club. She pointed to the ruined TEMPER units, surrounded now by National Guard soldiers starting to repair the damage. “What are you going to have your CIDs tear down next, Jason—the Border Patrol regional headquarters, after you get shut down? The federal courthouse, after they arrest Falcone for assaulting a federal officer? Are you going to take on the entire Justice Department because you want to run this assignment your way?”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips; Richter stopped but only half-turned toward her. “You haven’t changed much since we began the task force, Richter—you haven’t learned a thing. You’re little more than a spoiled laboratory nerd out here playing army with your fancy high-tech toys. It’s getting tiresome. Sure, you had some victories—but that’s only when you worked with others like the FBI and the rest of the U.S. military. But now the stakes are higher—there are lives at stake here, not just terrorists but peaceful, unarmed, regular people. Maybe this job isn’t for you.”

“Bull, Kelsey. This is my job. TALON can do anything we’re assigned…”

“Sure it can—but maybe you can’t lead it,” Kelsey said. “Maybe you ought to turn this assignment over to someone else and go back to your lab where you belong. In fact, I think I might recommend that to the AG. After this morning’s incident, I think he’ll do it to avoid a mutiny in his own department—at the very least, he’ll have to do it to avoid an international incident and official government protest. Until the White House decides what to do with you, Major, I suggest you adopt an extremely low profile—for the sake of this operation as well as your own career.”

“Kelsey, I may just be a nerd engineer with no field experience,” Jason said, “but I was chosen to lead this task force, and my task force was deployed to this location, so I’m going to do the job I was assigned the best way I know how. The President or Ray Jefferson can shit-can me any time they feel like it, for whatever reason—or for no reason. Until then, I’m going to operate my men and equipment my way, following whatever guidance or directives I’m given. I’m going to…”

He was interrupted by a beep from his command radio: “TALON One, TALON Two,” Ariadna radioed. “Condor has detected several large vehicles heading our way from the south across the border, about six kilometers out.”

At the same time, Ben Gray radioed, “TALON One, we have a possible situation out here at the south perimeter.”

“On my way,” Jason responded. Both he and Kelsey hurried off.

They found Gray standing on the roof of a Humvee, scanning the area to the south with binoculars. “Three armored personnel carriers, about five klicks south of us, spread out about two klicks along the border,” he reported when Richter and DeLaine ran up. “The one closest to us looks like an old World War Two half-track; the others are M-113s, with 12.7 mm machine guns mounted on the gunner’s turrets. I see flags of Mexico on their radio antennae.”

“Do they look like the real thing?” Jason asked.

Both Gray and DeLaine looked at Richter curiously—obviously neither of them had considered that they might not be official Mexican government vehicles. Gray scanned them again. “They look real enough to me,” he said, his voice definitely a bit more strained. “They look…hold on…they’re dismounting troops. I count…ten soldiers coming out of each vehicle carrying heavy packs and rifles.”

“We’re outgunned,” Jason said. “All we have is small arms and the CID units against three APCs and a platoon of infantry. It’s no better than even right now, and if we lost the CID unit, we’d be toast in minutes. Ben, better organize your security forces and stand by for action.” Gray blanched slightly and hurried off.

“‘Lost the CID units’? What are you talking about, Jason?” Kelsey asked as Gray sprinted past her. “You think the Mexican army means to attack us?”

“I’m not assuming they’re Mexicans,” Jason said, “or if they are, they’re not part of the Mexican army.”

“Who do you think they…?” Kelsey stopped—she finally figured out who Jason was worried about. “You think they might be Consortium?”

“Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov was a pro in recruiting local military personnel and getting his hands on all sorts of military hardware, all over the world,” Jason said worriedly. “That slimebag recruited dozens of American military men and stole hundreds of millions of dollars of weaponry, including helicopters, armored vehicles, and even a multiple rocket launcher, to assault Washington, D.C., and the White House. The bastard even stole Secret Service uniforms and equipment and got his hands on the President of the United States himself during his attack on Washington. If he could do that, he can certainly get control of Mexican military hardware and personnel.” He clicked the mike button on his command transceiver. “Ari…”

“I’ve got a call in to Jefferson at the White House, J,” Ariadna said. “They told me to stand by. I’m sending Condor imagery to TALON headquarters at Cannon to see if we can identify any of those soldiers.”

“What do they think they’re going to do?” Kelsey asked. “Are they going to assault the base?”

“It’s a possibility,” Jason said. “If it’s the Consortium, and their attack is successful, they could throw the entire continent of North America into a terrorism panic.” He changed channels on his command transceiver. “CID One.”

“I’m receiving the downlink from the Condor,” Falcone responded. “I’m in the aircraft maintenance hangar. What’s the plan?”

“Stay out of sight until we see what they’re going to do,” Jason said.

“Wilco.”

“Break. CID Two.”

“I’ve got them on my datalink too, sir,” Sergeant First Class Harry Dodd, U.S. Army, piloting the second Cybernetic Infantry Device, responded. “I’m eight point seven miles east of Rampart One. I can be there in thirteen minutes.”

“Negative. Hold your position for now. You’re guarding our east flank. Sound off if you see anything going on.”

“Roger.”

“This might just be a show of force, or some kind of probe,” Kelsey said. “They must know about our CID units…” But she fell silent—she knew she could not afford to assume anything right now.

“Jason, we’re picking up air targets—slow-moving, probably helicopters,” Ariadna said. “Closest one is about six miles out.”

“Where from?”

“All sides—six from north of the border, two from the south,” the civilian Army engineer said.

This was quickly getting way out of hand, Jason thought, trying to choke down a growing bolus of panic rising in his chest. “Any air traffic control codes?”

“Stand by…” It was the longest wait Jason could recall in a long time. “Negative, Jason, negative on the air traffic codes,” Ari finally reported breathlessly. “I’ll try to coordinate their tracks with the Domestic Air Interdiction Coordination Center at March Air Force Base to find out where they’re from.” There was another interminable wait; then: “Jason, the DAICC duty officer just blew me off. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell Richter that his friends at the Border Patrol said unable at this time: don’t call us, we’ll call you.’”

“Jerks,” Jason said. “Put in a call to Los Angeles Center and Riverside Approach, request some kind of track correlation and point of origin, and tell them it’s urgent. And keep on broadcasting warning messages to stay at least five miles away from the base or they could be attacked without warning. If we can’t fight ’em, our only chance is to bullshit them. And radio Cannon and tell them to bring some weapon packs out here.”

“You got it, J.”

This was definitely starting to get tense. “Rampart One, TALON One, did you copy about our visitors?”

“Affirm,” Gray responded. “I’m briefing my security platoon now. Stand by.” A few moments later: “TALON One, my guys are recommending we take any infantry units that move in on us; have your CIDs take the armored personnel carriers, if they move in.”

“And the helicopters?”

“All we’ve got are small arms, sir,” Gray reminded him. “If they try a gunship air-to-ground attack, we’ll just have to hunker down, stay out of sight, and wait for the infantry to try to engage us. We’re relying on your robots to put the fear of God into them.”

“That’s exactly what we intend to do,” Jason said. “Break. CID Two, start heading back to Rampart One. Defend yourself using any means necessary.”

“CID Two copies,” Dodd responded.

“Break. Ari?”

“Still on hold with Los Angeles ARTCC,” Ariadna said. “The nearest helicopter is three miles out.”

“They’re ignoring the TFR,” Jason said. The TFR, or temporary flight restriction, was a cylinder of restricted airspace established around the base and the Condor airships to prevent aircraft from overflying them. The Condor airship had a civil aircraft transponder that broadcast identification signals to other aircraft to try to prevent a mid-air collision, since it was almost impossible for the unmanned Condors to maneuver out of another plane’s way. “Rampart One, they’re inside the TFR. Weapons tight until you see a gun, then repel all invaders.”

“Rampart One copies. All Rampart units, this is Rampart One, weapons tight, repeat, weapons tight. Sound off immediately if you see weapons or encounter hostile action. All squads acknowledge.”

“Inside two miles, J, bearing two-five-five,” Ari radioed.

Jason scanned the sky and saw a helicopter in the distance. “Got a visual,” he radioed on the command network. “Doesn’t look military—looks like a civilian aircraft, a Bell JetRanger or similar. Paint looks civilian.”

“Second aircraft bearing one-nine-five, two miles.”

“No contact,” he said. He swung around and focused on the first helicopter again. This was going to be a tough decision. If he guessed wrong, and the helicopter was hostile, it would open fire any second—but if it was not hostile, he’d have his men open fire on an unarmed aircraft. There really wasn’t any other choice—he just hoped to God he’d make the right one. “All Rampart units…dammit, weapons tight, repeat, weapons tight. It’s a civilian helicopter. Looks like it’s turning away.”

“Third aircraft bearing three-one-zero, two miles.”

“I got a visual on number three,” Gray radioed seconds later. “The sucker’s coming right for us.” Jason could now hear the third helicopter, and sweat broke out on his upper lip. “It’s moving in…it’s…shit, it’s a media helicopter. It says TV-12 on the underside. It looks like it has a zoom camera on the belly…I can see a TV logo on the side…I recognize that chopper. It’s a TV station chopper from San Bernardino.”

At that moment, Ariadna radioed: “J, just got the word from L.A. Center. They’re media helicopters—three from Los Angeles, two from San Diego, one from San Bernardino. The two on the Mexico side are also media, both from Tijuana.” It felt as if it was the first time in several minutes that Jason was able to take a normal breath. “L.A. Center asked one of them if they were aware of the TFRs in the area that they were headed directly for, and the pilots said no. L.A. Center told them to turn back, but…”

“But no TFR is going to get in the way of a good story,” Jason said. “Swell.”

“This is turning into a heck of a cluster-f—Well, you get the idea, J.” But Jason wasn’t in a joking mood. If he was a leader in the Consortium, this is precisely how he would organize a sneak attack: get a swarm of media aircraft overhead to confuse the scene, then strike. The three armored personnel carriers less than two miles away were still major threats—if they attacked, there was very little Richter’s forces could do about it. CID Two might be able to get back to base in time to help, but if he didn’t, or if he was ambushed by another strike team, the losses could be horrendous…

…and if the attackers had nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons, all of which the Consortium had used in the past, the fight would be over in moments.

No! Jason screamed at himself. It wasn’t the Consortium! It was just a bunch of reporters, out to cover a story that obviously the San Diego U.S. Attorney’s office had just planted. Overreacting now could kill Operation Rampart before it got started.

“All units, this is TALON One, stand down, repeat, stand down,” Jason radioed on the command network. “I believe the aircraft and vehicles are here to document this task force looking belligerent and dangerous—let’s not give them a headline. All Rampart units, acknowledge.”

“Rampart One acknowledges,” Gray radioed, then relayed the orders through his squads and got acknowledgments from all of them, keeping them on high alert but having them shoulder and holster their weapons.

“CID Two, I copy all,” Dodd responded. “Resuming my patrol. Negative contacts.”

“Rampart One, I want N-numbers and descriptions of every aircraft that comes within the TFR,” Jason said. “Those aircraft and their pilots’ asses are mine.”

“With pleasure, sir,” Gray responded.

It was almost comical to watch. The first helicopter seemingly “tiptoed” toward the base, turning suddenly as if suddenly realizing it was in restricted airspace; then a second helicopter would move in a few hundred yards closer, then turn away; then a third would come in closer still. Soon the helicopters were hovering almost right overhead, less than five hundred feet above them—one helicopter dipped to less than a hundred feet to get pictures of excited migrant children waving in the exercise yard, women with babies running for cover from the swirling dust the helicopters kicked up, and men coming out of the latrines, tying ropes around their waists to keep their pants up.

“TALON One, you’re on the tube,” Ari radioed a few moments later. “Better go take a look.”

Jason walked over to the mess tent, which had a large flat-panel TV set up with satellite TV access. The TV was already set up to one of the all-news channels—and there, in high-definition color, was an image of Jason walking across the base, taken just moments ago. The camera quickly panned back to the detention area, showing in closeup detail the razor-wire-topped chain-link fences, housing units, latrines, and finally the chain-link dog-pen detention cells.

“Well, so much for keeping a low profile out here,” Jason muttered. He picked up his command net radio: “Ari?”

“He was just called to a meeting in the White House,” Ari said immediately, referring to National Security Adviser Jefferson. “He said to stand by at a secure line in case they want to conference you in.”

“Great. Just great,” Jason said. The command tent was still being repaired, so he’d have to wait in the Humvee. This morning was truly shaping up to be a real headache.

THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

A SHORT TIME LATER

“Is the whole damned world going stark raving crazy?” the President of the United States thundered. Like a high school principal who had just heard explanations from three of his pupils who had just been caught drag-racing in the school parking lot, President Samuel Conrad had Ray Jefferson, Attorney General George Wentworth, Secretary of Homeland Security Jeffrey Lemke, and Brigadier General Ricardo Lopez, commander of Operation Rampart, standing before his desk. He had just received reports from his four advisers on what had just happened in southern California. “Are your people all totally out of control, or just plain stupid?”

“Mr. President, will all due respect to this office, I will not allow what has happened out there today to stand,” Wentworth said angrily. George Wentworth was one of the most experienced and respected elder statesmen in Washington—he was so respected by both major political parties that no one was surprised that he stayed on after the administration’s shakeup following the Consortium terror attacks in the United States, even though the FBI and Justice Departments were roundly criticized for not protecting the nation better. “Three federal agents were physically assaulted by one of Jefferson’s task force members, and several of my people, including a district U.S. Attorney, were put into cages like stray dogs! Richter’s men are totally out of control out there, and they need to be recalled and prosecuted immediately!”

“I agree, Mr. President,” Secretary of Homeland Security Lemke said. “We don’t know all the details of that encounter, but once the international press gets hold of this story, they’ll murder us.” He motioned to the flat-panel TV in the cabinet to the right of the President’s desk. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Those choppers are not supposed to be overflying that base,” Ray Jefferson said, glancing at the TV screen. “That’s restricted airspace.”

“What do you want to do about it, Jefferson—shoot them down?” Wentworth asked.

“What would you do to any media helicopters that flew within a mile of Air Force One—have the FAA slap their wrists?” Jefferson asked. “The temporary flight restriction zone was set up around that base for a reason…”

“And it appears the reason is to keep the world from witnessing the human rights atrocities that are being performed out there!” Wentworth argued. “That’s what the press is going to say, you can bet on it!”

“All right, that’s enough,” the President said, holding up his hands. “Listen, we all knew we were going to take a lot of bad press about this plan.” He gave Wentworth a glare, then added, “But I don’t want the source of a lot of bad press to be my own cabinet. George, you told the cabinet when we implemented this plan that we were legally authorized to set up those detention facilities; you also said that we could establish that restricted airspace over those bases and around those bird-looking blimp things. Are you just talking about objections to the sight of those facilities, or are you warning us about serious legal challenges to the plan?”

“There are bound to be numerous legal challenges to the plan, Mr. President,” Wentworth replied. “I assume Justice and your counsel’s office will be quite busy in the months ahead. But sir, I was horrified at the sight of those chain-link fences and cages—and I was part of getting this plan put into action! I can’t begin to imagine the international outrage when the world sees those things on American soil!

“I’m also angry because of Major Richter’s treatment of my U.S. attorney and marshals,” he went on. “My God, sir, one of those robots—manned by the same officer who killed that migrant last night—nearly ripped one of the marshal’s arms off, and he used the marshals’ bodies to club down the other! It’s unacceptable behavior…!”

“About the reason why the U.S. Attorney and the marshals were there in the first place…” Jefferson began.

But Wentworth held up a hand. “I know, I know, Cass didn’t say ‘pretty please,’” he said irritably.

“George…”

“There is some confusion about whether Miss Cass properly requested permission to enter the facility, or tried to do so under her own authority,” Wentworth said to the President. “And yes, perhaps she started throwing her weight around when she didn’t have any to throw around. She may be guilty of bad judgment and sloppy paperwork. But that Task Force TALON officer, Falcone, is guilty of three counts of assaulting a federal officer, and Richter is guilty of false imprisonment…”

“George, I respect your wisdom and experience,” the President interjected, “but I’m telling you again: stop making definitive statements that undermine our own programs before we know all the facts. Falcone and Richter are not ‘guilty’ of anything. At a later date, when I give the okay, you can charge them if you want, and we’ll let a circuit court judge or the Supreme Court decide who has jurisdiction. Until that time, the words you need to remember are ‘We’re investigating, so I have no comment.’ Understood?”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Wentworth said. “But we can’t keep those task force members out there any longer. The operation can continue—there’s no legal reason I can surmise that prohibits us from patrolling our own borders—but the presence of those robot contraptions will only terrorize the citizens on both sides even more.”

“That’s part of the plan, isn’t it, General Wentworth?” Ray Jefferson asked.

“You know very well it isn’t, Jefferson…!”

“I know nothing of the sort, Mr. Wentworth,” Jefferson retorted. “First of all, we can put anything we care to on the border to perform whatever tasks we wish, especially homeland security and border protection. I’m not saying Richter’s or Falcone’s action with your agents was proper, but if the sight of those manned robots and detention facilities forces illegal migrants to sign up for a guest worker program, it’s done its job.”

“So that was our plan, Jefferson—terrorize the Mexicans into not crossing the border? I don’t remember that as part of the game plan, Sergeant Major!”

“Look at the televisions, Mr. Wentworth,” Jefferson said. “We have thirty U.S. soldiers at Rampart One, plus two CID units and two Condor unmanned reconnaissance airships. The Mexican Army has just deployed a similar number of troops in that same area, with armored personnel carriers and patrol helicopters instead of CID units and airships. I don’t think any illegal migrants will be crossing the border at this location for a while, do you?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Jefferson!” Wentworth exclaimed. “It’s a madhouse out there! Someone is going to make an awful mistake, and there could be a shooting war breaking out at any moment! Don’t tell me this is acceptable to you, because it certainly is not acceptable to the Justice Department!”

“All right, all right,” the President said, raising a hand. He turned to Brigadier General Lopez. “Okay, General, let’s hear it. What’s going on with you and TALON?”

“Sir, it was my decision to leave TALON completely in the hands of Major Richter,” the one-star Army National Guard flag officer responded. Ricardo Lopez was a bear of a man, six feet two inches in height, broad-chested and imposing, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, square jaw, a perpetual five o’clock shadow, and dark features. “My staff is directing the construction of forward operating bases in California and deploying support personnel, but I’m not up to speed on those Cybernetic Infantry Devices or their capabilities.”

“Didn’t Major Richter brief you on their capabilities, General?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir, he did. But getting briefed on them and knowing enough about them to deploy them effectively are two very different things. Given the short time frame given to have the first base set up, I decided the best way to handle it was to assign Major Richter the task of directing his men and equipment as he saw fit. I approved his rules of engagement orders; he coordinates all his movements with my staff on a regular basis; and he personally delivers a status report four times a day.”

“Do you think turning over control to Richter was a smart idea, General?” Attorney General Wentworth asked.

“Major Richter is a fine officer, and he has an enthusiastic and dedicated staff behind him,” Lopez said. “Richter may be…unconventional, to put it mildly, but he gets the job done. He’s not the problem.”

“Oh?”

“No, sir. The crazy idea here was using those CID robot things in the first place. But I believe I was not given a choice in making that decision.”

“So you’re not taking responsibility for what’s happened out there…?”

“No, Mr. Wentworth, I take full responsibility for whatever happens with Operation Rampart,” Lopez said immediately. “I’m just explaining my decision-making matrix, as I’ve already explained to Sergeant Major Jefferson.”

Wentworth turned to Jefferson. “You never told us that the commander of Rampart objected to using the robots, Jefferson.”

“I noted his objections, Mr. Wentworth,” Jefferson said, “but given the time constraints, TALON’s capabilities, and the problems associated with mobilizing the required number of National Guard forces, I directed General Lopez to utilize TALON to the utmost extent possible anyway. General Lopez assured me he would educate himself and his senior staff on TALON’s capabilities as quickly as possible. That was good enough for me.”

“What’s your plan, General?” the President asked.

“Very simple, sir: augment National Guard troops into regular U.S. Border Patrol operations, just like we do with Customs Service port inspection assistance teams,” Lopez said. “Each Border Patrol sector gets a National Guard infantry or cavalry platoon and a helicopter element for support, along with their equipment, for deployments that last no more than a week. We can augment other forces such as reconnaissance, communications, or intelligence as necessary, but I feel that wouldn’t be necessary—the Border Patrol has all of that already. All our units deploy from Border Patrol offices and travel under the direction of Border Patrol field units—we wouldn’t have to build any bases, jails, detention facilities, or anything else. The Guard gets on-the-job training by the Border Patrol, so we don’t have to reinvent the wheel. Plus, since the National Guard works in a support role, there are no Posse Comitatus conflicts.”

“And this was rejected…why, Jefferson?” Wentworth asked incredulously. “Sounds like the perfect plan to me.”

“It wasn’t rejected—in fact, the plan is being put into motion,” National Security Adviser Jefferson replied. “An urgent request has gone out to every state governor and adjutant general requesting support for the plan. We’ve received requests for more information—mostly on who’s going to pay for it—but so far no takers.”

“What do you mean, ‘no takers’?” Kinsly asked. “Why can’t we just order them to give us the forces we need?”

“We need a presidential directive ordering the federalization of the National Guard if we wish to put those forces under our direct control,” Jefferson said. “Otherwise, we can only request support. We have a budget for the construction of four forward bases for Rampart operations; most of that money went to the state of California for their National Guard engineering units to build the bases.”

“How long would it take to implement the program General Lopez has described, Sergeant Major?” Secretary of Homeland Security Lemke asked.

“The governor of California tells us that he is in favor of the proposal but he wants to feel the pulse of the legislature and the people before he commits the California Guard,” Jefferson replied. “Initial polling results suggest that most Californians wouldn’t want their National Guard involved, that it’s a job for the FBI and Homeland Security, not the military.”

“That’s not surprising,” Kinsly interjected. “California is almost thirty percent Hispanic, and they aren’t minorities in all of the counties in southern California.”

“Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas haven’t responded officially, but the governors are generally in favor of the program as well, with reservations,” Lopez said. “They are all in favor of Rampart if it means bringing their Guardsmen home from overseas duty.”

“The Pentagon won’t like that notion,” Lemke pointed out. “We’re stretched to the breaking point already—removing the Guard from overseas deployments will hurt.”

“So if the request is denied, our only option is to federalize those forces,” Jefferson went on. “General Lopez has current data on each unit’s readiness and deployability—some units could be ready in days, while others might take weeks. Integrating the forces with Border Patrol sectors would take a few weeks at best, mostly to cut orders, reroute units scheduled for overseas deployment, arrange transportation and lodging, and set up a training program.”

“The bottom line, sir: we can do it, without the help of Richter and his robots,” General Lopez said, giving Jefferson an exasperated glare. “They should be pulled out of there right away and Rampart turned over to the Border Patrol for operational control. The reconnaissance stuff is great: we are getting good support from those big sensor airships, but the robots are overkill…uh, excuse the pun, sir.”

“Looks like we may have pushed Rampart into existence too quickly, eh, Sergeant Major?” the President asked. “Maybe Richter wasn’t up to it.”

“Rampart has detained hundreds of illegal migrants in just a few days’ time, Mr. President,” Jefferson pointed out. “Last night’s incident was unfortunate, but an aberration—and it happened on the U.S. side of the border, with persons who refused to comply with the CID unit’s orders. Persons who are confronted by the CID units and don’t resist are treated the same as any other detainee apprehended by the Border Patrol. They are…”

“Oh, God,” Chief of Staff Thomas Kinsly interjected. The President followed his surprised look at one of the TV monitors—which showed the Minister of Internal Affairs, Felix Díaz, speaking in front of TV cameras. Kinsly turned up the volume, and they heard Díaz say, in excellent English, “…an absolute outrage. Mexico and the United States have enjoyed an unarmed and peaceful border for over eighty years, and both nations have shown the utmost respect for each other’s sovereignty, for the rule of law, and for the rights of all free men. Now look at this: a military base, less than three kilometers from the border, where Mexican citizens, among others, including women and children, are being held without being charged with a crime, in completely inhuman and degrading conditions.

“Last night, the inevitable happened: one Mexican national was killed, and two others seriously injured, by a U.S. military manned robot called a Cybernetic Infantry Device along the border region,” Díaz went on, referring to a notecard to pronounce the name of the offending weapon correctly. The cable TV news network promptly showed a picture of a CID unit, complete with twenty-millimeter cannons blazing, taken during the Consortium’s attacks in Washington, D.C. “The whereabouts of the dead and wounded are unknown. This is no less than a horrific and brutal crime, and I hold President Samuel Conrad as commander in chief of the American armed forces completely responsible.”

While Díaz was talking, a light had been flashing on the phone on the President’s desk; after some minutes, Kinsly finally answered it. “What is it, Gladys, the President is…” He paused, and the others saw his face sink. “Stand by.” He put the call on hold. “Mr. President, it’s President Maravilloso,” Kinsly said. “She’s on the phone.”

The President paused for a few moments, then sighed resignedly and motioned for the phone. “Put her on, Gladys,” he said into the receiver. A few moments later: “Madam President, this is Samuel Conrad.”

“Mr. President, thank you for speaking with me,” Maravilloso said, her voice edgy, not friendly at all. “As I’m sure you and your advisers there in the Oval Office are aware, I would like to speak to you about the situation on the border. I assume you are watching the news coverage of the disorganized and highly illegal activities here.”

“I am being kept fully informed of the facts of recent activities in that area, Madam President, yes. What can I do for you?”

“I will make my wishes plain for you, Mr. President—I request that you release all of those Mexican detainees from your prison camp immediately into my custody,” Maravilloso said sharply. “They will all be confined and supervised by the Mexican federal police—if they are guilty of a crime, I assure you they will not go unpunished.”

“Madame President, I cannot do that. I…”

“You mean you will not do it.”

“Those detainees have been observed crossing the U.S. border at other than a legal border crossing point,” the President said evenly. “That is a crime in the United States, and so they have been arrested and are being detained until…”

“Mr. President, you must understand, this cannot be allowed to stand,” Maravilloso retorted. “That facility you built as part of Operation Rampart, the one called Rampart One, is nothing more than a chain-link concentration camp for innocent Mexican citizens. What’s even more egregious, even more horrifying, is how those citizens are being treated by American military forces! We have received reports of torture, cruelty, and total disregard for basic human rights, let alone rights guaranteed to all under the American constitution. This must stop immediately, Mr. President!”

“The American government will thoroughly investigate any and all charges of torture or cruelty to…”

“Then you admit that these cases exist?”

“I admit nothing, Madam President—in fact, I have received no reports of…”

“We have eyewitnesses to such acts, Mr. Conrad—in fact, one of the eyewitnesses was also a victim of such cruelty and illegal treatment, the consul general of the Mexican consulate in San Diego,” Maravilloso interrupted. “He was just recently captured, arrested, and falsely imprisoned in a cage so small that he was forced to stoop on his hands and knees until he was released at the orders of your director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who was also a witness to this unspeakable action! The consul-general, a well-known, fully credentialed, and well-respected member of the Mexican diplomatic corps—forced to be imprisoned in a cell barely large enough for a dog?”

“The results of our investigation will be released as soon as possible, Madam…”

“That is not acceptable, sir!” Maravilloso cried. “We have reports not just from our people, but from very high-ranking American Justice Department officials, attesting to the accuracy of these charges!”

“Madam President,” Samuel Conrad tried, “I don’t have time to listen to speeches…”

“Mr. President, I respectfully request that you release all Mexican citizens into my custody immediately, or you risk creating an international incident and ruining the peace and trust between our countries,” the Mexican president said angrily. “If you refuse, I will immediately file protests with the Organization of American States, the United Nations, and the World Court, and I will ask American advisers to request that Amnesty International and the American Civil Liberties Union file lawsuits against the United States requesting injunctions to stop this gross violation of human rights.”

Samuel Conrad hesitated—and the reaction to that silence was as if a large cannon had been set off in the Oval Office. “Sir, tell her to mind her own business!” Jefferson said quietly but emphatically. “She knows she has no legal recourse here, or else she would’ve taken action already, not just threatened us like this…”

“It may not get her anywhere legally, but she’ll succeed in getting the entire world’s attention,” Secretary of Homeland Security Lemke said.

“Madam President, the United States asserts its right to secure its borders and enforce its laws,” Conrad said into the phone. “No legal or human rights are being violated: they have full access to legal representation, religious facilities, privacy, food and water, and medical care. They are…”

“Oh no,” Kinsly moaned again. “What in hell is he doing now?”

The President looked—and saw Minister Felix Díaz with a bullhorn to his lips, shaking his fists as he led a chant directed at the detainees at Rampart One! “What is he saying, Thomas?” he asked.

“I’ll get a translator in here…”

“‘¡Usted es héroes mejicanos! ¡Lucha para su libertad!’ ‘You are heroes of Mexico! Fight for your freedom,’” Ray Jefferson said.

“My God, he’s inciting them to riot!” Attorney General Wentworth exclaimed. “Can they hear him?”

“I don’t think so,” Jefferson said, “but they have radios and televisions in that facility—I’m sure he’s being broadcast to them.”

“Well, pull the plug!” Kinsly said. “Shut off those transmissions, or confiscate those radios!”

“It’s too late, Mr. Kinsly,” Jefferson said evenly. To the President, he said, “Sir, it might be too late to stop whatever happens next. We shouldn’t overreact. We can make full repairs to the base, but we’ll need to increase manpower at this and all other bases, especially for security at the detention facility. Our forces there need to be armed and authorized to oppose any action by the Mexican authorities.”

“What are you talking about, Sergeant Major?” the President asked absently. “What do you think is going to hap…?”

“Look!” Kinsly blurted. In response to the Mexican minister’s loudspeaker calls, several dozen men and boys had jumped on the chain-link fencing surrounding the detention facility and had begun swinging on it. At first the fence looked plenty sturdy enough, but it did not take long for the swaying to become wider and wider, until it was apparent that the fence was weakening—and the more the fence weakened, the more detainees jumped on it and joined in, causing it to weaken faster.

The camera swung back to Díaz, who was now getting into one of the news helicopters that had landed a short distance away. The helicopter lifted off, and soon his sound-amplified voice could be clearly heard on the broadcast. “He keeps shouting ‘freedom, freedom,’” Jefferson said. His cellular phone vibrated; in a major breach of Oval Office etiquette, Jefferson stepped away from the President and the others after checking the caller ID. “Go ahead…yes, we’re watching it, Major,” he said.

“Order Richter to get those people off that fence!” Lemke shouted.

“But don’t use that damned robot, for God’s sake!” Wentworth added.

Jefferson said nothing but continued to listen. Finally: “I concur, Major,” he said. “Proceed. Keep me advised.”

“Was that Richter?” Lemke asked. Without waiting to hear the answer, he said, “You didn’t order him to get those people off the fence?”

“No, Secretary Lemke,” Jefferson said. “He recommended that we establish a full defensive posture, and I concurred.”

“Defensive? You mean you’re not going to do anything but watch those detainees break out? They’re rioting out there! What do you intend to do about it?”

“Nothing, except guard what we can and minimize the damage,” Jefferson said simply. He answered his cell phone again, listened, then closed it. “Rampart One reports that Díaz’s helicopter is now in U.S. airspace, and is heading straight for the base. He is broadcasting on a PA system on the helicopter and can easily be heard by everyone at Rampart One.”

“For God’s sake…” the President muttered. He picked up the telephone on his desk. “Get the Secretary of State over here right away.”

“Mr. President, we have to call out the National Guard…we have to bring in troops to secure that area,” Jeffrey Lemke said. “We cannot allow the Mexicans to freely fly across the border like this and spring those prisoners!”

“Mr. President, again, I’m urging restraint,” Ray Jefferson said. “It’s too late to do anything at Rampart One now.”

“Too late…?”

“By the time we move one Marine from Camp Pendleton or one soldier from Yuma or El Centro, it’ll long be over, Mr. Lemke,” Jefferson said, more firmly this time. “We’re outgunned. We can launch some Cobra and Apache gunships from Twentynine Palms…”

“Are you crazy, Jefferson?” Kinsly asked incredulously.

“We’re fully within our rights to chase away any aircraft inside that TFR, Mr. Kinsly,” Jefferson said. “I’m not saying we engage those helicopters, but maybe just the sight of an armed helicopter will defuse this incident…”

“And if someone gets a twitchy trigger finger, it’ll escalate it,” Lemke interjected. “Just because we have the right to do something doesn’t mean we should.”

Jefferson could do nothing else but nod in agreement. The President angrily slapped a hand on his desk, then shook his head and chuckled gloomily. “President Maravilloso and Felix Díaz took a chance, and it paid off,” President Conrad said resignedly. “Like you said, Sergeant Major, I’m damned either way, right?”

“We’ll make sure we don’t get caught defenseless when we set up the next base, sir,” Jefferson said. “We were ready to deal with violence from migrants, smugglers, and detainees, not from the Mexican government. That will not happen the next time.”

“If there’ll be a next time,” Lemke said.

“Sergeant Major Jefferson, make sure that the personnel at Rampart One defend themselves to the utmost—they can use Richter’s robots if absolutely necessary,” the President ordered. “But no one interferes with the Mexican Army or the detainees. I don’t want a gun battle breaking out.”

“I’ll pass the word, sir,” Jefferson said, and he immediately picked up a telephone in the Oval Office to issue the orders.

It did not take long for chaos to erupt at Rampart One. The detention facility fence finally came down, injuring two men; several persons were badly cut when the tidal surge of detainees tried to run over the chain-link fencing and razor wire on their way out—it almost seemed as if some human bodies were being used by the crowd to bridge the wire. Women carrying children and old men were roughly pushed aside by the younger men on their scramble to freedom; dozens of detainees were screaming in pain. Detainees who hadn’t yet left the yard started running into other housing tents, emerging moments later carrying blankets, jugs of water, and personal items.

Outside the toppled fencing, Gray had stationed his men around the headquarters unit, maintenance facility with its power generators and fuel storage, medical unit, and the cages in which the more violent or criminally suspect individuals were kept—all other areas were unguarded, as the escaped detainees quickly discovered. The mess tents, barracks, legal aid unit, and personnel break units were completely overrun. The escapees filled their arms and pockets with food, bottles of water, and any personal effects they could find, like clothing, radios, game machines, and computers; the ones who emerged from the tents with nothing ransacked the place on their way out.

“¡Allá! Over there!” shouted Díaz’s voice from a loudspeaker on the helicopter. He began gesturing toward the dog-pens as his bodyguards struggled to keep him from falling out of the helicopter’s open door. “More of our people are being held prisoner! ¡Láncelos!”

At Díaz’s urging, a dozen men approached the prisoner cages, grabbing anything they could use as a weapon—chairs, shovels, kitchen tools, and pieces of pipe from the collapsed fencing. The National Guardsmen guarding the pens quickly found themselves outnumbered. “Rampart One, this is Seven, we have a situation here, am I cleared to engage?” one of the fearful guards radioed. “Am I clear to fire?”

“Sir?” Ben Gray asked.

“Negative—not yet,” Richter replied. On his command radio, he spoke: “CID One, respond to the prisoner cages, protect the Rampart personnel, and do not allow any prisoners to be freed. Use minimal force if possible.”

“Roger,” Falcone responded immediately. Within moments he was at the cages, standing between two guards. One of the guards had his rifle shouldered and had a tear gas canister launcher ready; the other guard still had his M-16 rifle at port arms.

“Rampart Seven, this is Rampart One, weapons tight, don your gas masks,” Gray ordered. The two Guardsmen complied immediately, shouldering their rifles and hurriedly donning their M40A1 gas masks. The angry escapees immediately began to throw their weapons at them, and the Guardsmen stepped behind the CID unit to avoid being hit by the projectiles.

“Seven, this is Condor!” Ariadna shouted on the command net. She had been scanning the area as the detainees fled, then the area in front of the cages as the angry escapees approached, and had just zoomed out for a wider look. “Several detainees approaching your position from behind! Look out!”

But her warning came too late. A group of five men had sneaked around behind CID One and the distracted Guardsmen. Before they could react, the men grabbed for their rifles, and after a brief struggle managed to wrestle them away from the soldiers. A tear gas canister ignited, covering the area with yellowish smoke.

“They got the rifles!” Ariadna radioed. “Watch out! Falcon, two beside you…”

“I’ve got ’em, Ari,” Falcone said. But it was not as easy as he thought. He was instantly pounced upon by the escapees, with as many as three men holding onto one arm. It was impossible to move slowly and carefully anymore with so many escapees on him—Falcone had no choice but to use the CID’s strength to flick the men off. Bodies started flying everywhere, and he couldn’t tell if the persons he was throwing around were attackers or onlookers, men, women, or children. Gunshots erupted, first just a few, then several on full automatic. Agonizing screams soon mixed in with the gunshots.

The helicopters overhead no longer avoided overflying the base—they circled right overhead now, their rotor wash helping to clear the tear gas. When the smoke cleared moments later, the television cameras saw the Cybernetic Infantry Device…

…surrounded by two dozen prisoners and escapees strewn about like debris after a tornado, none moving. It was a scene of absolute horrific carnage. Blood covered everything. Some of the bodies looked mangled, their limbs twisted in grotesque angles; one detainee was stuck on CID One’s left knee, his dislocated arm caught in one of the robot’s joints, being dragged around like an errant leaf or scrap of paper. When Falcone finally noticed the person stuck to him, he reached down and pulled the man off, leaving part of his hand and wrist still jammed on the robot, blood spurting everywhere like a leaky garden hose. Unthinking, Falcone tossed the man aside as if the body was nothing more than a piece of paper stuck to the bottom of his boots.

It was all captured on international television, live.

“Oh…my…God…” the President breathed as he watched the ghastly sight on his TV monitors. All of the major broadcast, cable, and satellite stations were playing the live video now.

“Mr. President, we’re going to need to clear that airspace so we can get emergency medical units out there,” Ray Jefferson said. “I suggest we request the California Highway Patrol respond first until we can get the National Guard out there.”

“Do it,” the President said in a whisper. He moved to the window behind his desk and stared out the window. Jefferson picked up a phone to issue instructions.

“Falcone…he’s getting out of the robot,” White House Chief of Staff Kinsly remarked. “This is the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen on television. I still can’t believe what I just saw.”

“Falcone has got to be prosecuted,” Attorney General Wentworth said. “The Mexican government…no, the world will demand nothing less.” A moment later, he asked, “So what’s he doing now, Jefferson?”

“Sergeant Major, have that man placed under arrest,” the President said, still staring out the window into the Rose Garden.

“No need, Mr. President,” Jefferson responded.

The President whirled around and stared in utter disbelief at his National Security Adviser. “What did you say to me, Jefferson?” he roared. “I ordered you to place Falcone under arrest! He’s got to be a lunatic! Even if he didn’t kill any of those people, he precipitated this entire episode by his actions! He’s going to go to prison for a very, very long time. He…” The President stopped, finally noticing that everyone else in the Oval Office was staring at the TV monitors. “What in hell is going on?”

“We’re about to see the last casualty in this debacle, sir,” Jefferson said stonily, sadly.

They all watched as Frank Falcone wandered, seemingly dazed and disoriented, through the piles of battered and bloody bodies around him and his Cybernetic Infantry Device. He stopped, zipped his flight suit all the way up to his chin, then stood limply, his arms hanging straight down, his head bowed. After a few moments, he looked up, reached down, retrieved a blood-covered M-16 rifle from the ground, pulled the charging handle to make sure a round was in the chamber, checked that the safety was off, turned it around, inserted the muzzle in his mouth…and pulled the trigger.