Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 4

WHEELER

RIDGE, SOUTH OF BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA

DAYS LATER

The man jumped when he saw the American military officer blow his head off on the taped replay being broadcast again on TV, but the next thing he felt was…intense amusement, almost glee. “Yop tvayu mat! Usrattsa mozhna!” he swore in Russian, being careful not to be too loud—these motel cabin room walls were paper-thin. The men and women behind him were stunned into silence, not daring to believe what they’d just seen on TV. “That guy must have really been fucked in the head—of course, now he does not even have a head anymore!”

“Chto sluchilos’, Polkovnik?” Ernesto Fuerza, known as Comandante Veracruz, the man standing watch by the back door and windows, whispered in good Russian. “What is it, Colonel?”

“I am watching the self-destruction of the American idiots trying to put military forces on the Mexican border, Comandante,” Colonel Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov said. “They cannot seem to get out of their own way. That poor bastard, Falcone, was probably the only one committed enough to do the job, and he has just blown his silly head off with an M-16 assault rifle—and not because of anything he did, but because he felt sorry for the prisoners he killed who were also stupid enough to shoot themselves trying to escape!”

Fuerza got another one of the men in the room to take his post, then stepped into the room—not to watch TV, but to watch Zakharov. The ex–Russian military officer always wore sunglasses, with the right lens slightly lighter than the left; he would occasionally dab under his left eye also, so he obviously has suffered some sort of injury. He drank like a damned fish, mostly chilled vodka or anything he could get his hands on, but he never seemed drunk or even impaired. He definitely liked his women too—he enjoyed the company of any number of prostitutes who always seemed to be nearby at every camp, hostel, or safe house they visited.

“Some of those ‘stupid’ prisoners were my people, Colonel,” Fuerza said irritably.

“Which ones are you referring to, Fuerza—the ones that were stepping over old men and women as they tried to escape, the ones that listened to your president’s brave orders to try to release those prisoners with two armed soldiers guarding them, or the ones who decided it was a peachy idea to attack that robot?” Zakharov’s demeanor was still ebullient, but his mood had changed—everyone could feel it. He definitely didn’t like being challenged.

“Fuerza, ‘your’ people are dead because they were stupid. They were free, for God’s sake—in twenty minutes or less they could have strolled back across the border to safety, and all the Americans would have done was wave bye-bye to them. Instead they decide to turn back toward the prison they just escaped to release some criminals that they would never associate with anyway. Are those the ones you feel sorry for?”

“Colonel, all those people want is freedom and prosperity in exchange for hard work,” Fuerza said. “Coahuila—what they now call Texas—Nuevo Mexico, and Alta California are home to them, even though a U.S. flag flies over the land. It belongs to us—it will always belong to us. It will one day…”

“Fuerza, please, you are boring me,” Zakharov said, downing another shot of vodka. “I really do not give a shit about your struggle or about your claims. Your followers may believe that nonsense, but I do not. You call yourself Comandante Veracruz as a reminder of the bloodbath that accompanied the American invasion of Veracruz in 1847; you strut around like some wild-eyed Muslim fanatic inciting the people to rise up and take what is theirs. But it is all for show. You get your picture on the cover of Time Magazine and you think you are a hero. In reality, you are nothing but a drug and human smuggler with a simple, effective message that has captivated the imagination of some otherwise mindless Americans. I cannot abide patriots or zealots—criminals, I can deal with.”

“Then I have a deal I wish to discuss with you, Colonel,” Fuerza said.

Zakharov looked to refill his glass, found the vodka bottle empty, then tossed the shot glass away with disgust. “What do you have in mind—gunning down more Border Patrol agents and corrupt sheriff’s deputies? Becoming a drug dealer, like you?”

“You want money—I have plenty of it,” Fuerza said. “What my men and I need is training and protection. You have experienced professional soldiers, and you want to bring more of them into the United States. Until your army is ready for whatever havoc you intend to create here, I have need of your services.” He searched a box of supplies on the floor, found another bottle of vodka, retrieved the shot glass, and gave them to Zakharov. “Napitok, tovarisch polkovnik.”

“I do not drink warm vodka, and I do not make plans with drug dealers,” Zakharov said, putting the unopened bottle in the tiny freezer section of the cabin’s noisy old refrigerator. He looked over at a corner of the cabin, where a man was setting up a plain white bedsheet and adjusting some lights, and shook his head with amusement. “Time for another videotape, I see?”

“It is the best way to keep the people of the world aware of our struggle on their behalf,” Fuerza said. “One Internet message can travel around the world in an hour these days.”

“It will also be the best chance for the American FBI to catch you,” Zakharov said. “They can analyze the tiniest background noises in a recording and identify the characteristics of any digital or audio recording; they can pinpoint any IP address in the world within moments; they can trace the origin and path of any package put in the mail anywhere in the world. Why give them any more clues to investigate?”

“The reward is worth the risk, Colonel,” Fuerza said confidently. “We get dozens of new recruits, tens of thousands of dollars in cash donations, and hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of free publicity every time we post a tape on our Web site, and even more when it is rebroadcast by the Mexican and American media. My messages are even rebroadcast overseas on Al-Jazeera and the BBC. We have received donations from as far away as Vietnam.”

“I will be sure to stay as far away from you as possible while your messages are uploaded to the Internet and mailed out to the media—sooner or later the FBI is going to swoop down on you, just like they did to Bin Laden and al-Zarqawi. You cannot avoid scrutiny if you decide to play out in the open.”

“As far as assisting your operation, Colonel, we will remain secret and concealed,” Fuerza said, “but as for my battle, I prefer to do my fighting out in the open.”

Zakharov took the bottle of vodka from the freezer and downed another shot. “Oh, really? Is that why you wear that fake hair, wear sunglasses even indoors at night, and disguise yourself to look like three or four different nationalities?” He saw Fuerza frozen in surprise and smiled. “You actually think no one sees you are wearing a disguise? It is good, but not that good. You look like some ridiculous Hollywood cross between Pancho Villa and Muhammar Qaddafi.”

“This disguise is my affair, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “The Mexican people need a symbol of our struggle for freedom, and I find it easier and more effective to do it in disguise.” Zakharov shrugged. “I have found using the media to enflame public opinion works much better in this country than the gun. The revolution is coming, Colonel. The power of the people is absolute and real.”

“Courageous and defiant…to the last.”

“‘My ne mozhem ubedit’sja iz nalichija koe-chego, chtoby zhit’ dlja togo, esli my ne zhelaem umirat’ dlja etogo.’ ‘We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it.’ Ernesto Che Guevara,” Fuerza quoted in Russian.

“Your namesake, I gather? How touching.”

“He recognized early on that the source of most of the oppression and poverty in the world is imperialism and capitalism, and the number-one proponent of both is the United States of America,” Fuerza said. “Ernesto Guevara was one man, a man of education and privilege, a trained physician who could have had anything in life he wanted—yet El Che chose instead to go toe to toe against the American Central Intelligence Agency to fight capitalistic aggression in South and Central America and the Caribbean…”

“Until he was sold out by Castro and captured by the CIA in Bolivia.”

“El Che dared to criticize Castro for selling out to the Soviets for money—in doing so, he became a martyr to the socialist movement,” Fuerza said. “His truth has been borne out by history: Cuba is nothing but a stinking Communist shithole exploited by Castro; Mexico is little more than America’s whore because the government sold the workers out just to line their own pockets. El Che is a hero to us all. I hope to be half the man he was.”

“Well, who knows what Guevara could have done with videotapes and the Internet,” Zakharov said. “But Guevara’s problem was he expected too much from the people of the Congo and Bolivia…”

“Not the people—the people were solidly behind him. The corrupt government in Brazil fought him; then, when El Che’s revolution looked like it might successfully overthrow the government, the Bolivians paid Castro to betray Guevara. But Castro didn’t have the guts to assassinate Guevara himself, because El Che was as much a hero of the Cuban workers’ revolution against the corrupt Batista regime as Castro himself. So Castro ratted him out to the CIA, who was more than happy to do Castro’s wet work for him.”

“Thank you for the history lesson,” Zakharov said drily. “Where are the damned weapons you promised me?”

“Five thousand dollars a day for you, a thousand per day for your men, free travel across the border, and all the weapons you want,” Fuerza said. “A few security and enforcement chores, keeping the rival cookers and the corrupt cops like Nuñez back there in line. That is all.”

Zakharov looked as if he wasn’t listening, but a few moments later he shook his head. “Ten thousand a day for me, two for my men…and one hundred thousand dollars as a signing bonus.” Fuerza’s eyes widened in anger. “Take it or leave it, Comandante. Or else go back to using your own banditos and paying off corrupt cops to secure your drug empire. They do such a good job for you, no?”

Fuerza thought for a moment—actually, he thought about whether he could get away with executing Zakharov, but the Russian’s men were too loyal to try to pay off and turn on their leader, at least right at this moment—then nodded. “Prevoshodnyj, tovarisch polkovnik,” Fuerza said. He extended a hand, and Zakharov clasped it. “Spasibo.”

“You do not have to thank me—you have to pay me,” Zakharov said.

Fuerza watched as Zakharov turned to look at the television again, and he could almost feel Zakharov’s body temperature rise when the helicopter cameras tracked a man and two women running from an enclosure out to where the dead officer that had piloted the robot lay. “Who is he, Colonel? He is the one you want, is he not?”

Zakharov half-turned toward Fuerza and chuckled. “You are very observant, Comandante,” he said. “Yes, that is Major Jason Richter, commander of Task Force TALON, the one that defeated my forces in Egypt and Washington. With him is his assistant, Dr. Ariadna Vega, Ph.D.”

“Ariadna Vega? That is the name of a famous guerrilla fighter during the Mexican War of Independence,” Fuerza said, his face transfixed in surprise. “She is one of the most celebrated women in Mexican history.”

“Well, she’s one tough minino, that’s for sure,” Zakharov said. “I all but killed her in Brazil, and she was back in the fight just a few days later. The other one is Richter’s former partner and now the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Kelsey DeLaine. Learn their names and faces well—they will undoubtedly be after both of us. They must be defeated at all costs.”

Fuerza was staring at the television until the camera zoomed in on the decapitated body, cutting Vega from view. “So. Was Richter the one who shot out your left eye, Colonel?”

“He did not shoot out my eye, Fuerza,” Zakharov snapped. “He missed by a mile—the bullet ricocheted off my helicopter’s rotor, and a fragment lodged in my eye. A hack doctor in Havana told me the eye had to be enucleated or the uninjured eye would sympathetically shut down.” He removed his sunglasses, revealing an empty eye socket. Fuerza did not—rather, dared not—look away, afraid of appearing squeamish at the sight of the horrible injury. “I took one of his eyes in exchange for the one he unnecessarily took from me—unfortunately, his did not fit me, and it was too late to give it back to him.”

“Why do you keep it open like that?”

Zakharov chuckled. “It puts great fear into my adversaries, Comandante, forcing them to look into another man’s skull.”

“But the pain…?”

“The pain helps keep me focused on my objective.”

“Which is?”

“Acercamiento de camión, capitán,” the lookout at the window said. Everyone drew weapons, including Zakharov. Fuerza went to another window and watched as the pickup truck with a camper—a familiar sight in this part of rural southern Bakersfield, at the foothills of the Tehachapi Mountains. They trained their weapons on it carefully, looking for any signs of danger, even after the driver flashed the headlights in a coded “all clear” signal. Fuerza requested and received a coded “all clear” from his lookouts around the perimeter before signaling that it was safe to approach the cabin.

While two men kept watch on either side of the camper, three more men began unloading. They brought in two coffin-looking fiberglass canisters and several wood and metal boxes of assault rifles, pistols, and ammunition. The men quickly opened the crates and distributed guns and ammo to each other to check over, while Zakharov and Fuerza concentrated on the “coffins.”

It was their best and most potent weapon since beginning this operation months ago: a Russian-built advanced man-portable air defense system, known in the West as an SA-14 Gremlin and in the East as a 9K34 Strela-3. An advanced version of the venerable SA-7 Grail MANPADS, the SA-14 had a larger warhead, a broader detection and tracking window, better countermeasures discrimination, and improved reliability. Each coffin contained the weapon stock, which included the pistol grip, shoulder stock, electronics, fixed and optical sights, and battery holder; two missile launch tubes; and two spherical battery-gas generator canisters.

“Prevoshodnyj,” Fuerza said. “They look to be in excellent shape.”

Zakharov examined each one carefully. “They were painted to look new, but the data plates are missing—I would estimate the gas generator is at least twenty years old, maybe twenty-five,” he said. “And if they used regular lead-based paint on those gas generators, the heat could cause them to catch on fire as soon as the operator pulls the trigger.”

“Are you sure, Colonel?” Fuerza asked angrily.

“I do know my Russian-made weapons,” Zakharov said drily. “Trust me, I know what I am talking about.” He continued his examination. “Overall the electronics and components look to be in good order, but the data plates are missing from the missiles as well, so I would guess they are as old as the gas generators. That means they are at least five and probably ten years over their service life. If you paid more than a thousand dollars apiece for these, Comandante, you got ripped off.”

Judging by the color in his cheeks and the bulge in his eyes, it was obvious Fuerza had paid much more than a thousand dollars for the missiles. “I do not get ‘ripped off,’ as you say, Colonel—I get even,” he said darkly. “The dealer who sold me these weapons will gladly give me a full refund and suitable replacements—especially if he wants to keep his fingers and balls intact.”

“I think you should take one or two fingers anyway just to ensure he does not try to steal from anyone else,” Zakharov suggested. “We have been here too long already, Fuerza. I suggest we split up until it is time to rendezvous again to carry out our next operation.”

“Soglasovannyj,” Fuerza said. “Agreed. You are the chief of security now.”

Zakharov examined the other boxes of weapons, found the ones he was looking for, opened six of them, looped two small cylindrical canisters over his shoulders and gave the other boxes and canisters to an aide. “I will have need of these, I am sure of it,” he said. “My next two squads are scheduled to arrive at the rendezvous point at Esparanza in two days. You will arrange the border crossing for them and transportation to Amarillo, Texas.”

“Two days? Impossible, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “The entire El Paso and Fabens border crossing area will be swarming with American Border Patrol and Mexican Internal Affairs border patrols for at least a week, maybe more.” He thought for a moment; then: “The best chance for a crossing in that time frame will be Arizona,” he said, smiling. “Have your men go to the rendezvous point in Nogales and await my signal. They will…”

“Nogales! That’s at least six hours west of the original rendezvous point!”

“Your first assignment, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “Perhaps your men will get a little field training and target practice in at the same time.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Your men will come across others on the trail,” Fuerza said. “If and when you do, you must deal with them…appropriately.”

“More Border Patrol agents, Fuerza?” Zakharov asked irritably. “They will be ready for us this time. Pick a different crossing point, Fuerza. What about Agua Prieta or Palomas?”

“Western and central New Mexico are already overrun with migrants,” Fuerza said, smiling. “My intelligence reports indicate that the Border Patrol and perhaps some civilian border patrol groups will concentrate their efforts there.”

“Civilians? You mean the vigilantes? You are going to put my men on the same trail as some of those American commando wannabes?” As Fuerza expected, the Russian terrorist broke out into a grin. “Well, that’s different, Ernesto. My men would enjoy an easy night of target practice.”

“I thought you might enjoy it,” Fuerza said. “But you must deal with them carefully.”

“My men and I are always careful…”

“Do as I suggest, Colonel, and I will create an atmosphere of paranoia and fear that will cause the entire border security debate in America to shatter,” Fuerza said.

“Explain.”

“The Americans are going to put more robots on the border and, if that fails as it appears it has, they will bring armed troops in,” Fuerza replied. “They will do this because they think they have the upper hand.”

“Militarily, that is unquestioned.”

“But in every other respect, they do not,” Fuerza said. “Perhaps on the question of their right to secure their borders from terrorist monsters like you, they win. But in moral, social, political, economic, humanitarian, and cultural terms, they fail. When the Americans realize they do not control what happens on their own immense borders, they will rush to return to the status quo, just as the American people’s response to your attacks just a year ago has been to simply return to the status quo.”

“This is gibberish, Fuerza,” Zakharov said, pouring himself more vodka. “I am not playing along with this cultural psychobabble. You want to kill some American vigilantes, do it yourself.”

“At the very least, you get to practice your night-hunting skills, and save some money on border-crossing fees,” Fuerza said. “At most, you will start an insurrection in this country that I guarantee will result in the borders being thrown wide open for you.”

Zakharov thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Fuerza. But if we expend any ammunition or lose any men or equipment, it comes out of your pocket, not mine.”

Fuerza fell silent himself, but only for a moment: “Very well, Colonel, it is a deal.” They shook hands, both eyeing each other warily as they did so. “Nice to do business with you, Colonel,” Fuerza said; then he added, “You still did not tell me what you and your men intend to do in this country, Colonel,” he said. He motioned to the television. “You want those robots, do you not?”

“First I want Richter and Vega as my prisoners, and then I want those robots,” Zakharov said. “They will teach me how those robots are maneuvered and controlled. I will use the robots to capture other robots and other weapons, and soon I will be the most powerful mercenary warlord in the world.”

“Such a force would be extremely valuable to me, Colonel,” Fuerza said.

“Use my robots to protect your dope deals, Fuerza? Not a chance. There are dictators that will pay me a hundred times what you are paying me now to have those robots fighting for them.”

“So you want to capture some of those robots to form a mercenary fighting force?”

“A fighting force, yes,” Zakharov said. “A ‘mercenary’ force—no. I have one specific objective in mind.”

“In Amarillo, Texas? More oil refineries, I assume?”

“You should assume nothing, Comandante,” Zakharov warned, “or if I am discovered, I will ‘assume’ that you told them, and if I survive I will be coming after you.” He paused, then murmured, “They have some things in Amarillo that belong to me, and I want them back.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Fuerza said. “I have excellent contacts throughout Texas, and of course I do a great deal of business there.”

“We will see how good your information is in Arizona first,” Zakharov said. “But perhaps you can be of help to me later on.”

“We will talk, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “If it is money you want, I can get it for you.”

“Keep your end of the bargain and don’t try to screw me, Fuerza, and then you can talk to me all you want.” He got on a small walkie-talkie, checked in with his security detail to be sure the way was clear, and departed.

As soon as the Russian departed, Fuerza ordered, “Keep an eye on them. I do not want those bastards coming back for this money. They have enough weapons now to lay waste to this entire county.”

“No confío en aquel ruso, Comandante,” one of Fuerza’s men said. “I think he would turn us in to the federales in an instant.”

“Concordado,” Fuerza said. He nodded toward the duffel bag filled with money. “Zakharov thinks he has bought our cooperation as well as those weapons. But we do not need his help. We will use him as much as possible, then dispose of him.”

He went into the living room, moved a couch, a rug, and several pieces of plywood, revealing a hidden door. He carefully removed a trip wire on the handle to deactivate a booby trap explosive device, then opened the door. One by one, he started handing out kilo bags of white powder, securely wrapped in duct tape, and more bundles of cash. “Guns and missiles are good,” Fuerza said as he handed the bags out to his men, “but they are a dime a dozen in this country. Get control of the money, and you get the real power.” He held up two bags of cocaine, worth several thousand dollars each. “This is the real currency in the United States of America, not guns—and certainly not nationalism or revolution. Get the money, and you get the power.”

FBI FIELD OFFICE, SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

THE NEXT MORNING

“Getting fired seems to be part of your regular routine now, eh, Jason?” FBI Director Kelsey DeLaine said with only just a hint of humor in her voice. With her was her assistant, Special Agent Janice Perkins, a friendly and rather demure blonde who was very quick with a smile and a handshake and who, armed with a seemingly endless array of PDAs and smart cell phones, always seemed to have any person or every bit of information requested of her instantly at her fingertips. They were approaching the FBI’s San Diego field office headquarters north of San Diego near Montgomery Field Airport on a bright, clear California morning.

“I don’t see the humor in it, Kel,” Jason said somberly. With him was Ariadna Vega, looking beautiful as always although she dressed down in a plain pantsuit and casual jacket against the chill of the gradually lifting morning marine layer, still visible to the west toward San Diego’s Pacific coastline. “What are we doing here, anyway? We’ve been debriefing you guys for the past eighteen hours already.”

“I have some folks I want you to meet,” Kelsey said.

“What for? We’re not part of Operation Rampart anymore.”

“And you shouldn’t be…you said so yourself,” Kelsey said. “For once, I agree with you: as you said, you need to be out in the field chasing down the bad guys, not waiting for them to come to you.” She looked at Jason earnestly and added, “And frankly, I think Task Force TALON was a great success. The FBI can sure put your capabilities to good use.” Jason made a show of clearing out his ears as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Kiss my ass, Major. I still think you’re a loose cannon, but Task Force TALON is for sure the future of special operations and high-risk law enforcement.”

“I’m touched by your concern for me, Kel.”

“It’s nothing personal, Jason—some men can lead, others can’t,” Kelsey said matter-of-factly.

“Don’t hold back, friend: tell me how you really feel.”

“Your training, education, and background have been in research and development, not leadership. You’ve always come through in the end, but usually at the expense of one or two of your best people. To me, that’s not true leadership.”

Kelsey’s last comment hurt—Frank Falcone’s horrifying suicide was just a couple days earlier, and he and Ariadna had been grilled about it and all the events leading up to the riot at Rampart One for most of yesterday. “So you want to take over?” Jason asked bitterly. “You want to make TALON a big bad FBI terrorist-hunting force?”

“As FBI director, I’m in a great position to see to it that TALON gets the funding, equipment, support, and taskings that can quickly turn it into the world’s most high-tech and fearsome security, interdiction, and law enforcement team,” Kelsey said. “I’m not trying to cut you out—there’ll always be a place for you on TALON…”

“Just not as commander, right?”

“As technical team leaders, designing, building, and deploying the latest weapons and technology, there’s no one that could replace you and Ariadna. As tacticians and field commanders…”

“You think we suck.”

“I think you need to learn how to build a fighting team, rather than slap on the armor yourself and rush out into the middle of a firestorm—or, worse, creating a firestorm,” Kelsey said. “I think I can do that. Now that I better understand how your technology works and what it’s capable of, I think I have the organizational skills to take TALON to a much higher level.”

“And that would sure make you look good, in or out of the FBI, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not doing this to make myself look good,” Kelsey snapped. “Sure, it would be a great legacy for me to bring that force up to full operational status as quickly as possible before I leave the Bureau. But I really believe in Task Force TALON too. I think it can be as big and as important as the U.S. marshals—heck, I think it could eventually replace the U.S. marshals.”

Jason had to admit to himself that he had never thought of TALON in that way before: TALON becoming its own federal law enforcement agency. He had only thought of it as a tool of the FBI or the armed forces, like choosing a different gun or vehicle to do a specific task. “Are you willing to take the added scrutiny?” he asked.

“‘Scrutiny’? I call it ‘universal condemnation,’” Kelsey said, only half-joking. “But to answer your question: yes, I’m willing to take it. To tell the obvious truth, I’m already tainted by my actions with TALON—I’m not long for the directorship. I was nominated because of what I did to help hunt down the Consortium. But I don’t play well with Congress, the Attorney General, or the Washington bureaucracy, the three players that you need to win in that town. So I might as well help TALON hunt down whoever is invading America now, then take my retirement and head off to a nice comfy private sector consulting job.”

She took off her sunglasses and looked around. “And this would be a nice place to base my consulting firm,” she added. “Nice weather year-round, far enough away from the ocean to avoid the fog, but close enough to still enjoy the coast; great airport, great facilities. Nothing against Clovis, New Mexico, but this area puts it to shame.”

“I’m surprised to hear you talking like this, about getting out of government service and hanging out a shingle,” Jason remarked. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

“I can read the handwriting on the wall, Jason—my honeymoon with Washington is just about over. They’ll want a more experienced, hard-nosed man in the directorship soon. I think it’s smart to make plans. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.” She looked at him carefully and added, “Maybe even join my team.”

“You and I…working together?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s my firm—you’d be working for me.” That, Jason thought, was the no-nonsense, plain-talking Kelsey DeLaine he knew. He saw the surreptitious glance that Ariadna gave him and knew that she was thinking the same thing. “But I’d put your real talents to good use, and I’d guarantee the pay, benefits, and perks would be well worth it.”

“Sounds like you have it all worked out, Kel.”

“Times change—you gotta change with them,” Kelsey said. “Think about it.”

As she stepped ahead to greet the woman standing just outside the FBI field office, Ariadna walked up to him and said under her breath, “You, in a suit and tie, working for her?”

“‘Times change—you gotta change with them,’” Jason parroted.

“I’d rather go back to Fort Polk and eat crawdads.”

“Now you’re making me hungry.”

Kelsey was met by the Special Agent in Charge of the San Diego field office, Angelica Pierce, a tall and striking brunette with bright blue eyes and an unmistakable upstate New York accent. “Welcome to San Diego, Miss Director,” Pierce said, shaking first Kelsey’s hand, then greeting the others. “I understand you’ll be heading out right away, and I know you’ve had a long night. Everything’s ready; coffee’s waiting.”

“Thanks, Angelica,” Kelsey said. “I appreciate your office’s hustle on this. Your support has been outstanding.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Pierce responded. Her tone became much more serious—pleasantries were over, time to get down to business. “We’re at full security posture, as you know, which is why you had to park so far away from the building. We won’t be bypassing entry security either; sorry in advance for the delay.” They surrendered their ID cards before entering the building, then entered an entrapment area together while low-power X-ray scanners scanned for weapons and explosives, then entered the inspection area one at a time, where they were hand-wanded with metal detectors to locate their weapons. Everyone but Jason and Kelsey were surprised that Ariadna was carrying a weapon, her standard SIG Sauer P220 .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol—but everyone but Kelsey was surprised as they watched cheerful, friendly, smiling Janice Perkins go through security: she was carrying no less than three guns, including a remarkably small Heckler & Koch .40 caliber UMP submachine gun on a shoulder rig under her coat.

“Sheesh, I never would’ve guessed,” Jason remarked. “Wonder how well armed your bodyguards would be?”

“Janice is my bodyguard,” Kelsey said. “She can take dictation, type eighty words a minute, can make any computer turn cartwheels, and can put thirty rounds inside a twelve-inch diameter target at sixty feet on full auto. She’s also an attorney. She was a JAG in the U.S. Marines before joining the Bureau.”

They took an elevator down one level to a detention facility, checked their weapons in with the jailers, then entered an interrogation room, with a long metal table bolted to the floor, several chairs, and two walls with one-way mirrors on them. Coffee and sandwiches were brought in, which Richter, Vega, and DeLaine hungrily devoured. A few moments later there was a knock on the door, and an agent brought in an older white male, with several days’ growth of gray facial hair and unkempt gray hair, wearing an orange prisoner’s jumpsuit. The agent made sure the inspection shutter on the door was closed, removed the prisoner’s handcuffs, and closed the door behind him on his way out.

Special Agent in Charge Pierce went over and shook the man’s hand. “Welcome, Paul,” she greeted him. “Hope you don’t mind the masquerade. We have too many folks in this facility that might recognize you.”

“No problem at all, ma’am,” the man replied.

Pierce turned to the others in the room. “Paul Purdy, this is FBI Director DeLaine, her assistant Special Agent Perkins, Major Jason Richter of the U.S. Army, and his deputy Dr. Ariadna Vega. Folks, this is…”

“Paul Purdy? The U.S. Border Patrol agent who was reported killed by those terrorists near Blythe?” Kelsey asked. She stepped forward and shook his hand. “Glad to see you’re really alive, Agent Purdy.”

“No one more’n me, Miss Director,” Purdy said in a rather “aw-shucks” down-home southwestern country twang—not Texas, not southern California, but somewhere in between. Kelsey was immediately certain Purdy had adopted the accent to make anyone he encountered underestimate him—she had to be careful, she reminded herself, not to do that.

“What happened?”

“They shot me in the back as I was helpin’ the migrants we caught out of my patrol truck,” Purdy said. “Like an idiot, I didn’t have a shock plate on the back of my vest, like I do in front, and the bullet knocked the wind outta me. I landed face-down in a ditch, and I guess they left me for dead. I came to in the hospital.”

“And you announced to the world that he was killed?” Jason asked. “Why? To keep his family safe?”

“Paul was a BORTAC agent and used to do some undercover work in his early years in the Border Patrol, and his Spanish is very good—we thought about having him go undercover again,” Pierce said.

“BORTAC?”

“Border Patrol Tactical units,” Pierce explained. “The top one percent of the Border Patrol, chosen to undergo special training in covert surveillance, high-risk captures, hazardous warrant service, assault, and special weapons. They put members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Teams, U.S. Marshals Special Ops Group, and most big-city SWAT units to shame sometimes. Purdy was one of the Border Patrol’s top BORTAC agents in the early years of the program.”

“My family’s pretty small and spread out, and I’m definitely not made of money—the terrorists should have bigger fish to fry, Major,” Purdy said. “I’m not one for hidin’ out, either—if they want to get to me, let ’em come. I’ll be ready for ’em next time.” Jason smiled at the guy’s tenacity—he was ready to take on the Consortium all by himself. Purdy looked at Richter and Vega. “You the people trying to use those big robot things on the border, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, Agent Purdy,” Ariadna replied.

Purdy reached out and shook both their hands. “Thank God we’re finally getting some firepower to back up our patrol forces,” he said. “Every swingin’ dick on the wire is dead meat otherwise.”

“I hate to tell you this, but we’ve just been reassigned,” Jason said. “My team’s been taken off the project—just regular Border Patrol units and a few National Guard out there now, although they are better armed and have better surveillance equipment now.”

“That’s just because your gadgets scare the livin’ shit out of everyone, especially those pasty-faced pencil-pushers in Washington.” He paused, looked at Kelsey in embarrassment, then decided he really meant it and shrugged. “No offense, ma’am.”

“I think you well deserve to speak your mind, Agent Purdy,” Kelsey said.

“Tell the major and Director DeLaine who you think attacked you, Paul,” Pierce prompted the rough-looking Border Patrol veteran.

“Russians,” the old guy said simply. Kelsey’s mouth dropped open in surprise; Jason nodded knowingly. “Expert, well-trained, and stone-cold killers. They popped my partners and the other migrants as casually as if they were squashin’ cucarachas.”

“Are you sure, Agent Purdy?” Kelsey asked.

“Sure I’m sure, ma’am. I spent four years in Air Force intelligence before I joined the Border Patrol, two of ’em in West Germany. I spoke with plenty of Russians—I learned to speak it pretty well, if I do say so myself. Another one of the terrorists yelled at the one speakin’ Russian, telling him in Spanish to quit talkin’ Russian.”

“You were right, Jason,” Kelsey said. “It’s got to be the Consortium, trying to infiltrate back into the country—except this time they’re sneaking across the border instead of using fake passports.”

“There’s no ‘trying’ about it, ma’am—I’d say they had at least a dozen, maybe two dozen, inside Ernesto Fuerza’s truck, fully armed and equipped like front-line infantry,” Purdy said. “They mowed down their targets as easy as waterin’ the lawn. Who knows how many more of those trucks made it across? We only nab one out of ten pollos on a good day. If ten more trucks like that one made it across that night, they’d have an entire company of shock troops or Spetznaz—Russian special ops forces—in the country right now. I didn’t see anyone come out of Flores’s truck except Hispanics and one other…”

“Fuerza was there?” Ariadna Vega interrupted incredulously. “Ernesto Fuerza? Are you sure, Agent Purdy?”

“Sure am, Dr. Vega,” Purdy said. “The one smuggler I’ve never been able to nab—I’m not sure if I could hold him either, since every civil rights and immigrant rights attorney in the southwestern United States and northern Mexico would sign on to represent him. The Hispanic community thinks he’s Mexico’s Fidel Castro or Yasser Arafat and will eventually lead them to a pan-American homeland, free of persecution. To me he’s just another coyote. I personally recovered dozens of kilos of drugs during one bust, but he got away…”

“He says he’s not a drug smuggler anymore,” Ariadna said.

“Once a drug smuggler, always a drug smuggler,” Purdy said. “The money is just too good to ignore. I wouldn’t make the mistake of giving him the benefit of the doubt if I were you. And now that he’s been seen traveling with a bunch of Russian commandos, I’d say he might be into infiltrating terrorists and guns into the U.S. too. I’d love to put that bastard away for good.” Purdy smiled at Ariadna’s grim expression. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Doc, but Fuerza is a serious bad guy. I don’t think he’s the freedom fighter everyone makes him out to be.”

“He has done some remarkable, important things for the migrant community, Agent Purdy,” Ariadna said. “I’m not questioning your knowledge and experience, but I’m pointing out that the good he’s done can’t all be discounted.”

“Oh yes it can, missy,” Purdy said. “First of all, the ‘good’ you’re talking about—helping foreigners sneak into the country illegally—is against the law. Maybe we should be changing the law to make it easier for workers to come to this country legally, but until it is changed, Fuerza is breaking the laws that I swore to uphold, and I’m going to stop him.

“Second: maybe back whenever he supposedly renounced his evil days of drug smuggling and switched to migrant smuggling he did it because he really did want to help his fellow Mexicans find a better life in America. But that was then. These days, he takes on any client and any cargo as long as they got the cash. It looks to me like he brought in terrorists with serious heavy weaponry—and those terrorists used a bunch of migrants as human shields to gun down my buddies.”

“But you didn’t see Fuerza shoot anybody, did you?”

“No, but he certainly didn’t warn my buddies that they were about to get blown away now, did he?”

“Maybe he didn’t know they were going to…”

“Sure, Doc—a guy loads a truck up with a squad of guys in body armor and automatic weapons, and he’s just going to take them to the local farm so they can go pick some vegetables,” Purdy shot back acidly. His features softened a bit when he saw Vega’s expression turn from defiance to hurt and shame. “Hey, Doc, I’m not tryin’ to pick a fight with you, okay? A lot of folks all over the world, including some very smart politicians, lawyers, and talkin’ heads on TV, think Fuerza is a hero. I just can’t help but notice that I don’t see those people out on the wire with me and my guys very often.” He smiled reassuringly. “But you’re out here, Doc, and I respect that. We’ll make a good team, and we’ll see what we see.” Ariadna nodded and tried to smile, but her face looked grim and she averted her eyes and said nothing.

“What else do you remember about that night, Agent Purdy?” Kelsey asked. “You mentioned Russians—can you give us a description?”

“Just of one of them, the one that I think came in with Flores—I couldn’t ID the military ones that jumped out of Fuerza’s truck, ’cause they were wearing balaclavas and helmets,” Purdy said. “Big guy, about six-two, square and solid but not fat, shaved head, wearing sunglasses.”

“Zakharov,” Jason breathed. “It has to be.”

“Zakharov? Yegor Zakharov?” Purdy asked incredulously. “The guy who planned those terrorist attacks on Kingman City, San Francisco, and Washington? He was right in front of me? My God, I actually saw Yegor Zakharov…I even got a bead on the motherfucker until his troopers started shooting up the place!”

“Are you sure about your description, Agent Purdy?” Kelsey asked.

“Positive, ma’am—I hit him square on with my lights, and he turned and faced me as soon as I did. Zakharov came with Flores in his Suburban with a small group of migrants, and Fuerza brought the big truckload of terrorists.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute—you keep on mentioning this Flores,” Jason interrupted. “Who’s Flores?”

“Flores. Victor Flores. He was the second smuggler in the group.” He looked questioningly at Special Agent in Charge Pierce. “You didn’t recover the body of a young kid, seventeen or eighteen years old, near the shot-up Suburban?”

“No,” Pierce said. “You never mentioned him.”

“I assumed he was among the dead,” Purdy said.

“There was a young boy killed, maybe eleven or twelve, but not a teenager…”

“When I arrived on the scene I arrested a coyote named Victor Flores,” Purdy backtracked excitedly. “He was separate from Fuerza. Fuerza brought the big truck with the commandos in it, the one that the second Border Patrol unit rolled up on. I rolled up on Flores and his Suburban. I know the kid—I’ve caught up with him many times, but never arrested him. But he was there. I had handcuffed him to the door of his Suburban but cut him loose just after the shooting started.” He looked at the others in surprise. “He must’a gotten away!”

“There’s another witness out there,” Jason said. “Another guy who could positively ID Zakharov.”

“ID him? Hell, I think Flores brought him into the country!” Purdy exclaimed. “When I rolled up behind Flores, before I hit my lights, Zakharov had just finished talkin’ with Flores and was walkin’ with Fuerza toward Fuerza’s truck. It looked like a meet.”

“They must’ve come in separately—Zakharov with Flores, and the commandos with Fuerza,” DeLaine said. “Good operational security technique.”

“But if you didn’t recover Flores’s body, he might still be around,” Purdy said. “We gotta find him before Zakharov or Fuerza do.” He looked at Pierce and DeLaine. “Give me another chance at them, ma’am, Director. Let me out of here.”

“If it’s the Consortium, and they find out you’re alive, they’ll kill anyone in their way to get to you,” Kelsey said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I didn’t sign up for the Border Patrol to be safe, ma’am,” Purdy said. He looked over at Richter and Vega. “Put me in with these guys. I’ll help them track down Zakharov and whoever is in on this.”

“We’ve been shut down, Agent Purdy,” Ariadna said.

“Well, open back up again,” Purdy said testily, suspicious about all the resistance he was getting from the supposedly gung-ho Army guys. “Your robots are the only thing that can stop these nutcases from killin’ more agents. Those Russians are just as well equipped and effective as any U.S. Army light infantry unit I’ve ever seen, and they’re gettin’ stronger every day. They’ll blow any Border Patrol agents away easy.” He turned to Pierce and said, “I can help track those terrorists down. I know the migrant worker community, ma’am…”

“They know who you are. They won’t cooperate with you.”

“They know I’m fair and don’t try to bust their balls, ma’am,” Purdy said. “They probably don’t know how dangerous those Russians are—if the migrants knew who they were hiding, they might welcome our help in shutting them down.”

“You’re still La Migra,” Pierce said. “If the Consortium is living and moving among them, the migrants might just turn you in to ensure safety for themselves and their families. Do you have anyone in the community who could help you?”

“I might be able to contact some of my informants…” Purdy replied, but from his expression it was obvious he couldn’t trust them either. He turned to Ariadna. “But Dr. Vega here could help me. She knows the language better than me, and she’s a helluva lot better-lookin’.”

“I’m second-generation American,” Ariadna said uneasily, her eyes lowered apologetically to the floor. “I’ve never been part of the Hispanic community. I’m not sure if I could help you. Besides, I’ve got my hands full with the task force.”

“Hey, Dr. Vega, you look pretty tough to me,” he said, “and from what I heard you did in Brazil and Egypt, I think you can handle yourself. Besides, the Hispanics usually don’t rough up or squeal on the women, even if they’re not from their community—it’s not very macho to put a lady in danger, even a lady cop.” In pretty good Spanish, he added, “Ellos no pueden parar mi Veracruz y su belleza, señorita.”

“Gracias, señor,” Ari said, adding tentatively, “But I don’t think I can do it.”

Purdy looked at Ariadna carefully, quietly trying to gauge the real meaning of her response, then shrugged. “I’m stuck, then,” he said. “I’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way—pound the pavement, kick a little ass, and pass around a lot of cash. Give me a couple BORTAC squads and I’ll have enough firepower to handle anyone.” He looked wistfully at Jason and added, “Except the Consortium. For them, I’m sure I’ll need the Marines or Special Forces, if I can’t get the robots.”

“It might be too late anyway, Paul,” Pierce said. “I’m sure Flores has hightailed it back to Mexico by now.”

“He might have, but I don’t think so,” Purdy said. “Flores is not Mexican. He’s an ‘angel baby’—his parents were Mexican migrant workers, but he was born in the US of A, an instant citizen.” From Pierce’s expression, she obviously didn’t know this bit of information. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you don’t show us yours, so we don’t show you ours. That’s gotta change if we hope to get any real work done.

“Anyway, Flores’s parents were migrant farmworkers, but he was born in southern California, Coachella Valley, JFK Hospital, I think—I’ve seen his jacket. Hell, nowadays more than half of all kids born in southern California have parents who are illegals, but seventeen years ago, that made you special—an ‘angel baby.’ I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts he’s still in the area. He helps the migrants but he’s one hundred percent American—I don’t think he would run to Mexico.” He turned again to Jason and Ariadna. “Give me these two and their gadgets, and I’ll find Victor Flores, I guarantee it.”

Kelsey looked at Jason, then said, “There’s no way the White House is going to approve using TALON to hunt down one young man,” she said.

“You’re the freakin’ director of the FBI, ma’am—tell ’em what you want and what you’re plannin’ on, and they’ll do it—if they’re smart,” Purdy said. “You meet with the President all the time, right? You used to work for the new Secretary of Homeland Security, and if I’m not mistaken you reported directly to the new National Security Adviser and that rat bastard traitor Chamberlain when TALON was first stood up, right? Excuse me, ma’am, but what’s the question here? You got more insider avenues than Martha Stewart.”

“TALON wasn’t designed as an investigative system, Agent Purdy,” Jason said. “TALON is a high-tech individual motorized infantry unit, equivalent to a heavy rifle, missile, or mortar squad. It’s better if it…”

“You guys are killin’ me,” Purdy said, shaking his head in pure exasperation. “You’re tellin’ me you have a gazillion-dollar robot and all these fancy unmanned reconnaissance aircraft out there and you can’t help me find one damned kid in an artichoke field in the Coachella Valley? You”—he went on, turning to Kelsey—“can’t requisition these guys to help you track down the one other survivor of a terrorist assassination, the guy that may lead us to the whole gang?” He glared at them both. “With all due respect: what kind of pansies are you guys? That’s all you do all day is whine and tell your subordinates no, no, no?”

“You’ve never seen a CID unit in action, Agent Purdy…”

“I’ve seen ’em on TV enough to know they’re a hell of a lot faster, stronger, and tougher than those Russians that shot me in the back,” Purdy interjected. “Yeah, sure, robots aren’t your typical undercover agent. But that doesn’t mean we can’t put them and the rest of your stuff to work. It just takes a little imagination and brainpower, Major. What’s the matter—the Army not issuing creative thought to its field grade officers anymore?” Jason smiled and nodded in surrender; Purdy nodded in satisfaction and turned to Kelsey. “And you, Miss Director—I don’t want to hear the words no or I can’t do that in my presence, with all due respect. If you don’t want to use your power or authority as director of the freakin’ FBI, hand it over to me—I’ll show you how to get the job done.”

“Keep it in check, Agent Purdy…” Angelica Pierce warned.

“No, he’s right, Angelica,” Kelsey said. She looked at her watch, then at Janice Perkins. “Janice…?”

She had her personal digital organizer out before Kelsey asked the question. “We’ll be taking status reports from the SACs and the foreign bureaus on the flight back to Washington,” she said immediately. “Meetings in Washington start at thirteen hundred hours. The first one is with the intelligence staff, followed by the meeting with the directors of national intelligence and central intelligence at Langley. We’ll have one hour after that to prepare briefings and recommendations. We brief the AG at sixteen hundred hours, the National Security Adviser and Chief of Staff at sixteen-thirty, which I think will go at least two hours, and then we brief the President. He may ask for it earlier because he has the speech to deliver at Annapolis.”

“That’s way too much information, Agent Perkins,” Purdy said. “No one wants to know how the damned sausage is made, for Christ’s sake.”

Kelsey thought for a moment, then nodded resolutely. “Janice, I need you to…”

“Have the deputy director take the status reports and report any unusual or significant activity to you,” Janice interjected, making notes on her PDA with amazing speed, “because you’ll be in a strategy meeting with Major Richter, Dr. Vega, and the charming Agent Purdy, preparing a plan to utilize Task Force TALON to apprehend suspected Consortium terrorists that you think have infiltrated into the southwestern United States with the use of Mexican human smugglers.”

“Tell me you can cook and I’ll marry you tonight, sweetheart,” Purdy said to Perkins.

Janice only winked at the veteran Border Patrol agent in reply, then asked, “Are you going back to Washington, ma’am?”

“Back to all those damned fool boring-ass meetings?” Purdy mumbled under his breath. “How can she bear to miss any of them?”

“I’ll be back for the meeting with DNI and DCI,” Kelsey said. “The deputy will have to take over all other chores until I return.”

“That’s what assistants are for, ma’am,” Purdy said.

“Thank you for your insights, Agent Purdy,” Kelsey said, letting a little exasperation show in her voice. “I just gave you one hour of my time to put together a plan of action to use Task Force TALON and the FBI to assist you in tracking down the terrorists that killed those Border Patrol agents. Now, if you’re not all jokes and hot air, you had better start talking to me, and it better be good. Jason, Ari, have a seat. When I get on my plane for Washington, I want a plan in place and all the players tagged and ready to go as soon as I get the word from the White House.”

Paul Purdy slapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly. “Now that’s what I was waitin’ to hear, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “It won’t take ten minutes to tell you what I want to do to track down those bastards that killed my friends and slaughtered those innocent people. Then, you tell me how you can help me do my job.

“This isn’t the Army, my friends; it ain’t the FBI; it ain’t even the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection,” he went on seriously, looking at each one of them in turn, then settling his gaze on Ariadna’s worried expression. “I’m talkin’ about the Border Patrol, the real Border Patrol. We been around a long time, doin’ our jobs the best we could. We do things a little differently out in the field. You follow my lead and help me do my job, and we’ll nail those murderous sons of bitches soonest.”

He looked Jason up and down with a smile on his face, then slapped him on the shoulder. “You’d better get busy growin’ some facial hair, young fella—if you can,” he said. “You look way too clean-cut for where we’re goin’.”