Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 5

CORONADO NATIONAL FOREST,

SOUTHEASTERN ARIZONA

TWO NIGHTS LATER

“Welcome to a very special edition of The Bottom Line, my friends and fellow Americans. I’m Bob O’Rourke, speaking to you from the Coronado National Forest about thirty miles southwest of Tombstone, Arizona, the site of the infamous Gunfight at the OK Corral and the home of tough-as-nails lawmen like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson. This is being taped for broadcast tomorrow morning. My voice may sound weird to you because I’m speaking into a special microphone mask that muffles my voice so it can’t be heard by others, which might reveal our presence. I’ll explain why I need this in a moment.

“I’m here with my sound engineer, Georgie Wayne, who has done stevedore’s work helping me haul our gear up these mountain passes tonight. It was quite an exhausting hike for me, and I only carried a light backpack—Georgie carried the rest of our stuff, and I give him all the credit in the world for humping all this gear for me. My tree-hugging producer, Fand Kent, is back in the studios in Las Vegas—she doesn’t have the legs or the stomach for this kind of work.

“We’re way up in the Huachuca Mountains, at about six-to seven-thousand feet elevation. It’s rocky, with lots of trees and scrub brush—easy to hide in, as countless generations of fugitives, gangsters, Native Americans, and outlaws well know. Nearby Millers Pass rises to an elevation of over 9,400 feet. The air is cool, even though the daytime temperatures exceeded ninety degrees, and the air is very still. There is a very thin moon out tonight. It’s a perfect night for an ambush.

“But it’s us who will be doing the ambush. I’m here with Alpha Patrol of the American Watchdog Project, the world-famous group of volunteers from all over the United States who have taken it upon themselves to do what the federal government and the military are apparently unwilling or—in the case of the abortive attempt by Task Force TALON in southern California recently—unable to do: patrol and protect America’s borders. We’re here tonight because we have credible, actionable information gleaned from informants and from the Watchdog’s own network of watchers, both on the ground and in the air, that a large number of illegal migrants will be heading this way to cross into the United States. With me on a wireless microphone is the American Watchdog Project’s commander, Herman Geitz. Can you hear me okay, Commander?”

“Loud and clear, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz replied. He was almost a foot taller than O’Rourke, with a bushy beard and large craggy features, wearing camouflaged forest hunting clothes, a Camel-Bak water bottle in his pack, and a web utility belt with a sidearm holster, flashlight, and other gear.

“Thank you for allowing The Bottom Line to accompany you on this mission, Herman. My first question is obvious: if your information is so accurate, where is the Border Patrol? Why aren’t they in on this?”

“Thank you for being here tonight with us, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz said. “To answer your question, the Border Patrol is here. The closest unit is down the trail about ten miles away at the base of the mountain, probably patrolling Route 83 and the Coronado Trail Road. The Border Patrol has about thirty agents that work in three shifts to patrol southwest Cochise County and half of Santa Cruz County, roughly between Nogales and Bisbee up to Interstate 10.”

“And how much territory is that?”

“That’s about a hundred and sixty square miles, Bob.”

“One hundred and sixty square miles of some of the most rugged, inhospitable, and dangerous land in the United States,” O’Rourke said. “Ten agents—basically one agent for every sixteen square miles.”

“It’s actually two agents per patrol,” Geitz corrected him, “so it’s five units plus a roving supervisor per shift for the entire patrol area.”

“How do they do it, Herman?” O’Rourke asked. “How is it possible to cover that much territory with only ten men per shift?”

“Like most small tactical units, Mr. O’Rourke, the Border Patrol relies on intelligence information and sensors, whether they be ground vibration alarms or helicopter patrols using infrared sensors,” Geitz replied. “In essence, the patrols position themselves according to the latest information they receive; and they respond to alarms, like a private security company patrolling a large gated community. Unfortunately, in this case, the ‘gated community’ is very large and very rugged, and there are no gates—the illegals can cross the border anywhere within twenty to thirty miles from where we’re standing, and if the Border Patrol’s not close by when they trip an alarm, they can make it without getting caught.”

“Sounds like an impossible task.”

“They’re backed up with two helicopters assigned to the Tucson Border Patrol sector, and they can call on local law enforcement and even Army soldiers from Fort Huachuca if necessary.”

“Ever see soldiers out here helping the Border Patrol, Herman?”

“I’ve seen one Army helicopter used to medevac an agent when he rolled his Ramcharger,” Geitz replied.

“How about the sheriffs’ department?”

“They help transport any detainees and provide the lockup until the Border Patrol transports prisoners to Tucson for processing.”

“So in essence it’s just five patrols and a supervisor to patrol this entire mountainous area…”

“And the Watchdogs,” Geitz said proudly. “We have almost a hundred volunteers out here patrolling the Coronado National Forest tonight. Stand by.” Geitz swung one microphone away from his lips, spoke quietly into another headset microphone, then brought O’Rourke’s mike back. “One of our patrols has made distant contact with a very large group of individuals moving through the Khyber Pass. Looks like our information is right on.”

O’Rourke’s voice quivered in excitement. “What’s the Khyber Pass, Herman?”

“As you know, Bob, the real Khyber Pass between Pakistan and Afghanistan is an important and well-used route of travel, used for centuries as a link between central Asia and the Indian subcontinent,” Geitz said. O’Rourke nodded impatiently as if he knew all about what Geitz was saying. “Alexander the Great used the Khyber Pass three hundred years before the birth of Christ to invade India. Centuries of traders, soldiers, smugglers, and travelers used that route freely because there was virtually no way to patrol or regulate it. We call this particular trail over the mountains the Khyber Pass because it is by far the busiest route for illegals to travel between the state of Sonora in Mexico and southern Arizona. The Watchdogs have made dozens of intercepts on this trail since our formation two years ago.”

“What do the Watchdogs do up here, Herman?”

“We sit, wait, observe, and report, sir,” Geitz replied. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“So you spot someone walking on this trail. There’s nothing illegal about that, is there?”

“No, sir, there isn’t, and we don’t treat everyone we encounter up here as illegals,” Geitz said. “Only the ones we definitely know traveled across the border are classified as illegals.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Most times, it’s just watching,” Geitz said. “We station ourselves along the border, which is carefully surveyed and verified, and watch them come across with our own eyes. Sometimes we have Fido observe them coming across.”

“‘Fido?’ What’s that? A dog?”

“Our unmanned reconnaissance drone,” Geitz said. “It’s actually a war surplus Pioneer drone used by the U.S. Navy and Marines during Operation Desert Storm to pick out artillery and shore bombardment targets. The Iraqi soldiers knew the Pioneer drones were used to spot artillery targets and actually surrendered to the drones in very large numbers. It’s been invaluable help in telling us where and when a group will come across. When we see activity, we’ll go out to make contact.”

“But when you make contact, you don’t actually know for sure they’re illegal immigrants, do you? How do you know they’re illegals?”

“Most times we actually see them cross the border—we have it carefully surveyed and mapped relative to our observation positions, so there’s never any doubt,” Geitz explained. “Anyone who crosses the border at other than a border crossing point is in violation of the law, no matter what their nationality is—even natural-born Americans can’t legally do it. But it’s not our job to know or to find out if they’re illegal or not. Only law enforcement has the right to stop them, ask for identification, and ascertain their citizenship or immigration status. Again—and it’s the main point that so many of our critics miss—all the American Watchdog Project does is observe and report. We help the Border Patrol do their job.”

“So when you come across a group of illegals…?”

“We photograph them with our infrared and low-light cameras, send the images to a relay van down on Route 92 to upload our contact images to the Internet, and have the guys in the van contact the Border Patrol. The control unit will then relay any instructions received from them to us.”

“Instructions? What do they tell you to do?”

“They usually tell us to leave the illegal migrants alone, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz replied.

“Leave them alone? Let them just stroll into the United States?”

“That’s right, sir,” Geitz said. “We report their location, numbers, general physical description, and any other information we can gather. Sometimes we’ll follow them; many times, if we feel they’re dangerous or if we recognize them as repeat offenders, we’ll escort them all the way down the mountain and try to have the Border Patrol rendezvous with us.”

“You said ‘try’ to have the Border Patrol meet up with you?”

“They just don’t have the manpower to respond to us every time—and frankly, I don’t think they always have the desire,” Geitz said. “Simply put, we make them look bad sometimes. We’re a bunch of volunteers that intercept just as many illegals as they do—that doesn’t look very good in the press.”

“So you’re out here doing intercepts and surveillance and reconnaissance—sounds like a military operation to me,” O’Rourke said. “You call yourself ‘Watchdogs’ but you do a lot more than just observe. Bottom line: aren’t you all just a bunch of vigilantes?”

“No more than a neighborhood watch group would be—our ‘neighborhood’ just happens to be popular immigrant smuggling routes in the mountains and deserts of America,” Geitz replied. “Vigilantes take the law into their own hands, the entire law—they become the police, prosecutors, judge, jury, and sometimes the executioner. We don’t do any of that. Think of us as a neighborhood watch program: we observe and report, nothing more.

“But this is our home, so we act like neighbors as well. We live here, but this is also public land, and anyone can travel through these parts. Outsiders are not treated like intruders or criminals unless we observe and know they are breaking the law—merely walking through this area is not illegal, and we don’t treat those we find as illegals. We’ve offered rides on our four-wheel ATVs in case anyone is injured or having trouble keeping up with the others. We offer water, some food, and first aid, just as we would if we encountered any other hikers on the trail.”

“What does the Border Patrol do after you give them a report on what you’ve found?”

“If they have a unit available, they’ll meet them down at the end of the trail and detain them,” Geitz said. “If they don’t, they get away.”

“Get away? Even if you tell the Border Patrol exactly where they are, they still get away?”

“It’s a matter of manpower, sir. If they don’t have a unit available, they get away.”

“What do the Watchdogs do in that case?”

“Nothing,” Geitz said. “We let them go too. We’ll report their direction of travel, whether or not they were picked up by anyone and a description of the vehicle, but we let them go. We don’t have the power to arrest or detain them unless we actually see them breaking the law. Even then, we tread very lightly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, for example, if we actually observe and record a person crossing the border in this area, we know that’s an illegal act, because you are only legally allowed to cross the border at a border crossing point. But even if we positively identify the offender and have incontrovertible proof he broke the law, we don’t know all the ramifications of why he did what he did.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. What ‘ramifications’?”

“For example, Mr. O’Rourke, you can legally cross the border at other than a border crossing point if you feel your life is in danger, or if you are fleeing political persecution,” Geitz said. “A lot of times I know the migrants claim all that just to hope to avoid deportation; it may or may not be true. The point is, however, that the Watchdogs don’t make that call. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty in our eyes, and we strictly enforce that. We simply observe and report—the rest is up to the authorities.”

“Reports say you try to make citizen arrests on them.”

“Absolutely not true,” Geitz insisted. “Although I know they’re breaking the law, and I have incontrovertible proof of it, the Watchdogs do not make arrests.”

“But you and your men are armed. I see plenty of shotguns and rifles, and almost everyone I’ve seen carries a sidearm. If you intercept someone out here in the dark carrying weapons, couldn’t that be considered an arrest?”

“First of all, sir, I must emphasize that everyone who carries a weapon must have the legal right to do so,” Geitz said. “We do not carry concealed weapons, and we do not brandish weapons—show, operate, or handle them as a means of intimidation or coercion—under any circumstances. We conduct firearms safety courses for everyone in our organization; everyone who carries a weapon is fully trained in gun safety and field procedures as well as marksmanship. Discharging a weapon except in self-defense is strictly prohibited and will result in immediate dismissal and being reported to the sheriff’s department.”

“‘Self-defense’? From animals…or human beings?”

“Anyone or anything that threatens us, Mr. O’Rourke, but mostly animals. Many of our patrols have encountered snakes and other predators out here. Most times using a firearm is not necessary—a bright light, a noisemaker, or simply leaving the area does the trick better than shooting a gun off in the dark that might endanger other patrols. Most folks that carry weapons carry only ‘snake loads’—ammunition containing small pellets instead of bullets that are good only at short range and probably wouldn’t kill a person, best suited for killing aggressive varmints.”

“Varmints are one thing, but what about some of the illegals you intercept?” O’Rourke pressed. “You have arrested illegals before, Herman—I’ve seen the reports. Have they gotten violent? Have they threatened you? Is that the real reason you and your members carry guns?”

“As I said, sir, no member of the American Watchdogs may discharge or even brandish a weapon except in self-defense,” Geitz said. “Whenever we make an intercept and a person unknown to us is carrying a weapon, we order him or her from the cover of darkness to drop the weapon. This is for our safety and the safety of our fellow citizens. That’s what some in the media have been calling ‘arrests.’”

“And then what?”

“If they drop their weapons, we inspect the weapons and search the individuals to make sure they don’t have any more weapons, and then we report the contact to the Border Patrol and sheriff’s department,” Geitz said. “We comply with whatever instructions we receive from the authorities, which is usually to stop what we’re doing and wait for help. If the migrants don’t comply with our orders, we don’t approach them, but we try to keep them in place until the authorities arrive.”

“In other words, you arrest them.”

“We make it clear to them that for our own safety, they will not be able to leave until it is safe for us to allow it,” Geitz said. “They don’t have to attack us first for us to be fearful for our lives. We won’t let a stranger with a machete just walk away from us with the thing still in his hand—that wouldn’t be too smart. If that’s what the media calls an ‘arrest,’ so be it.”

“What if they’re carrying guns?”

“We don’t allow them to take any firearms,” Geitz said firmly. “Absolutely not. That’s too dangerous for everyone involved. We confiscate all dangerous weapons and turn them over to the Border Patrol or the sheriff’s office. We’ve turned in hundreds of weapons, everything from swords to bombs to machine guns.”

“But what about their protection from animals and predators?”

“Mr. O’Rourke, I’m more concerned about the safety of my members. This is our home. An unidentified alleged illegal immigrant carrying a firearm or any other dangerous weapon near my men and women will not be tolerated. I may not have the legal right to take away another man’s freedom or weapon on public property, but I am legally permitted to defend myself if I feel my life or property is threatened, and I will do so. Without hesitation.”

“I commend your bravery and honesty, Commander Geitz.”

“Fortunately, we haven’t run into too many illegals with firearms,” Geitz said, “and the ones that do have them surrender them to us without incident. The sheriff tells me that if I take any kind of possession whatsoever—a backpack, knife, handgun, bazooka, or even a nuclear bomb—from anyone, that person has the right to swear out an arrest warrant for armed robbery and assault and have me thrown in jail. But so far no one has done that,” he added with a satisfied chuckle.

“But what if some human rights, civil liberty, or migrant advocacy group goes after you with an army of their attorneys?”

“I’m not too concerned with what an illegal or their lawyers might do to me,” Geitz said confidently. “Frankly, I’d welcome a day in court. We have nothing to hide here, and we’re doing a public service. We document every second of every intercept with both video and audio, beamed to our relay unit and digitally recorded before it’s uploaded to our Web site. We use GPS technology to pinpoint our location, so there’s no…” Geitz froze, listened in his headset, then said, “Time to get ready, Mr. O’Rourke. They’re almost here.”

Bob O’Rourke was quivering with excitement as he dropped the microphone mask and stowed his gear. “Now remember, our men have tiny blinking red identification lights on the back of our belts, so you should be able to follow us in the dark if you stay close,” Geitz said into his whisper mike. “In case you do get separated, all you have to do is stay put, wherever you are, and wait for us to come back for you.” He pulled several plastic tubes from a utility belt pouch, bent them almost in half, shook them vigorously, then handed them to both O’Rourke and Wayne. “Put these around your neck. They’re identification ChemLites.”

“Mine’s not working.”

“You can’t see the light unless you’re wearing night vision goggles, as all of the Watchdogs are,” Geitz said. “But we can see you as clearly as if you were carrying a flashlight.”

O’Rourke held his ChemLite up to his face as if looking closer would allow him to see the light, but he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness. He could hear the sounds of men getting ready to move all around him, and he could barely contain himself. “Damn,” he muttered, “now I have to take a piss.”

“It happens all the time—the excitement of the hunt,” Geitz said gleefully, like a kid getting ready to get on the rope swing for the first time. “You have to hold it until we make the intercept and take control of the targets. Don’t be embarrassed to piss in your pants if it gets too uncomfortable—you wouldn’t be the first one to do it, I guarantee it. It won’t be long now—they’re coming right at us.” The thought of any of these rough, tough Watchdogs seeing him, big-time radio celebrity Bob O’Rourke, with urine-stained pants was unthinkable, and he strained harder to hold it in.

In a sudden flurry of activity, the Watchdogs ran into the darkness for several dozen yards, then stopped suddenly. “I…I’m following Commander Herman Geitz of the American Watchdogs as best I can—they’re moving quickly down a path that is completely invisible to me.” O’Rourke spoke into his microphone mask, trying but failing not to breathe too heavily and reveal how completely out of shape he really was. “My legs feel as if they’ve been bull-whipped by running through the scrub brush. Good…good, we’ve stopped.” He whispered for Geitz, who turned back to O’Rourke. “Why did we have to run all of a sudden like that, Commander?”

“A little confusion, sir,” Geitz whispered, raising his night vision goggles away from his eyes. He pulled a small GPS map device from a pouch and checked it. “Our lookouts initially reported the migrants’ position on one trail. But Fido positively identified the migrants on a different trail, so we had to move quickly to intercept.”

O’Rourke looked skyward as if expecting to see the drone watching him. He felt somewhat reassured that the electronic eyes were watching them, although it still didn’t prevent things from getting a bit chaotic. “So we have two groups of migrants out here tonight?” he asked nervously.

“It appears so,” Geitz said, a bit of concern evident in his voice. “More than likely the first group split up. But the group we’re headed for is very large—the tactical reconnaissance operators in the mobile control van count at least twenty individuals on foot. As soon as we intercept the first group, we’ll turn our attention to the others.”

“Shouldn’t you order your second unit to intercept the other group?” O’Rourke asked. He noticed the worry in Geitz’s voice, which made him doubly concerned. “What if they get away? They could be the smugglers.”

“We’ll use Fido to keep an eye on the smaller group.” Geitz turned back to his radios, leaving O’Rourke alone with his fears. This just wasn’t smelling right.

Thankfully they were apparently in the right position, because they didn’t have to run off again. In just a few minutes the night got very still again. All O’Rourke could see in the total blackness was the tiny blinking red light on Geitz’s belt—staring at it seemed to make it revolve in slow clockwise circles, which was starting to make him a little nauseous. He felt his canteen on his hip—the one filled with bourbon, not water—and thought about reaching for it when he heard…voices. He froze.

They were right in front of him, O’Rourke realized with shock. He could hear their feet scraping the rough earth, hear their anxious voices, hear someone spit, hear another stumble and curse. They sounded rather…workmanlike, like you would hear a group of factory workers or farmers walking together on their way to the entry gates or the barns, getting ready for a hard day ahead. O’Rourke had expected them to sound like guerrilla fighters carrying machine guns and ammo discovered by Special Forces along the Ho Chi Minh trail, not worker bees carrying their lunch pails and thermos bottles.

“I…I can hear them.” O’Rourke spoke into his microphone mask. “I can’t see them, but I can hear them. Commander? You’re using night vision goggles: what do you see?”

“It’s a group of…I count twenty-three individuals,” Geitz whispered, his strained voice barely audible. “I can make out two women. Those on the Internet will be able to view our night vision images on our Web site in just a few minutes. I see the usual assortment of backpacks, garbage bags, numerous one-gallon jugs of water, and rucksacks the migrants carry while traveling. It’s hard to tell their ages, but they look pretty young. I don’t see any children this time.”

“What about calling the Border Patrol?” O’Rourke asked nervously.

“Our tactical control van is relaying the information now,” Geitz said. “We haven’t heard a response about whether or not they’ll head up here yet.”

“Are they carrying any weapons? This sounds very dangerous, Commander…”

“I don’t see any weapons, but I see several persons carrying suspicious bags that could contain weapons, so we’ll have to confront these individuals and do a citizen’s search of their belongings for weapons.” Geitz swung O’Rourke’s microphone away and spoke into his tactical radio.

“Commander Geitz is relaying instructions to his teams,” O’Rourke said. Geitz reached behind him and touched O’Rourke’s arm, telling him to be quiet. “I’ve been told to be quiet,” O’Rourke whispered into the mask. “I don’t know if they can see us, but I’m sure as soon as Commander Geitz judges it’s safe, I’m sure he’ll…”

“Attention! This is the American Watchdog Project! You are surrounded!” Geitz suddenly shouted, using a bullhorn. Then, in stilted but understandable Spanish, he ordered, “¡Levante sus manos y no harán daño a usted de ningún modo!” Powerful flashlights popped on, illuminating thirty or forty feet of the trail. The men and women blinked at the lights in confusion and slowly raised their hands. The coyote in the lead of the column of migrants had two cloth pouches over his shoulders. “Drop those pouches, señor,” Geitz ordered. “Deje caer todas sus posesiones!”

The pollos started to comply, looping their backpacks and trash bags off their shoulders. “This is incredible!” O’Rourke said, switching from his microphone mask to a regular handheld mike. “We’ve just burst out of the darkness and surrounded this group of migrants. We have eight men plus Georgie and myself, Geitz’s Alpha Team plus the Bravo Team on the other side of the trail, just carrying flashlights. We’re not showing any weapons, none at all. But the migrants are giving up. They’re stopping and raising their hands in surrender.”

The coyote was a little more defiant. “Hey, whoever you are, vete a la mierda!” he shouted. “We don’t answer to you or nobody!”

“I am Commander Herman Geitz of the American Watchdog Project,” Geitz said over the bullhorn. “Your presence is being reported to the U.S. Border Patrol right now. There is no use running. La permanencia y nosotros le daremos el alimento, el agua, y la medicina.” More migrants began to find a place to sit on the rocky trail—it was obvious they had had enough. “If you try to travel north into the United States, we will track you and continue to report your whereabouts to the U.S. Border Patrol.”

“And if you do not leave us alone, hideputa, you will feel the wrath of Comandante Veracruz and all who honor freedom!” the smuggler shouted back. “Now get out of here! Leave us alone!”

“Alpha Team, this is Fido Control,” came a message from the Pioneer unmanned observation plane’s control team. “How copy, Alpha?”

“Stand by, Fido,” Geitz radioed back.

“Just be advised, Alpha, video is intermittent from Fido, repeat, we’re losing video. Very strong interference. Will advise when it’s back online.”

“Commander Geitz has just offered the migrants food, water, and medicine if they give up and wait for the Border Patrol,” Bob O’Rourke said, after getting a translation from Georgie Wayne. “The leader of this group is a young man with long dark hair, what looks like a green military-style fatigue cap, a red bandanna around his neck, and military-looking boots, probably in his early to mid-twenties. He is carrying two canvas satchels and he hasn’t dropped them yet like most of the migrants have done. He is obviously the coyote, the smuggler. But he is quickly losing control of his clients. Commander Geitz seems very nervous about this young man, mostly because he’s still got those satchels and they look like they could hold a lot of guns and ammo. The situation appears to be getting very tense now.”

“¡Déjenos en paz!” the smuggler shouted. “¡Veracruz de comandante dice que estamos en el suelo mejicano!”

“What did he say?” O’Rourke asked.

“Something about someone called Commander Veracruz saying he is on Mexican soil,” Georgie replied.

“Is he high? Is he crazy? This is America, not Mexico!” O’Rourke said acidly. “This Veracruz guy is nothing but a rabble-rouser and drug dealer who thinks he’s some hot-shot Mexican version of George Washington.”

“I say again, drop those bags immediately!” Geitz said over the loudspeaker, ignoring the radio call from his observation team. “Usted no será dañado, prometo. You will be allowed to pass after we have searched your possessions for weapons.”

“Screw you, gringo!” the smuggler shouted. “You don’t have no right to do this!”

“Alpha Team, this is Fido. Be advised, we’ve lost our video downlink, but we saw two separate contacts approaching east and west of your position, range less than thirty meters. Recommend you use caution; repeat, we lost the downlink. Do you copy, Alpha?”

“I said, drop those bags, cagado!” Geitz shouted, shining his flashlight directly into the young man’s eyes to try to disorient him.

“I…I think Commander Geitz just called that guy a coward, boss,” Georgie Wayne said. “He ain’t gonna like that.”

“¡Me cago en la leche de que mamaste!” the coyote shouted angrily, and he reached into the right satchel.

“He’s reaching for a gun!” O’Rourke screamed, his voice rising several octaves in pure terror. “Watch out! He’s got a gun!”

Everything was a blur of motion at that moment. Georgie Wayne was right beside O’Rourke with his left hand on his shoulder, trying to get his attention, and when the first shots rang out he immediately pulled the radio personality to the ground and lay on top of him. Men were screaming all around them. The gunshots sounded like firecrackers, punctuated occasionally by a loud “BOOOM!” from a heavy-caliber gun.

It seemed like the shooting lasted an hour, but in reality it was only seconds. O’Rourke waited until all the shooting had subsided; then, with all the courage he could muster, said to Wayne in a low voice, “Get off me, dammit!”

“Stay down, boss…”

“We’re not here to hide like chickens, Georgie! Get off me!” Georgie reluctantly slid off him—O’Rourke found himself committed now to get up, even though his legs were shaking so badly that he might not have been able to make it. “What happened? Did the smugglers open fire?” He looked up and saw Herman Geitz walking beside him, with his sidearm still smoking in his right hand. “Geitz! What happened? Were we attacked by the smugglers?”

Geitz looked down at O’Rourke and opened his mouth as if he was going to reply…but instead, a torrent of blood rushed from his open mouth, his eyes rolled up into his head, and the man pitched over and landed face-first on the rocky ground.

“Oh…my…God!” O’Rourke gasped. Years of experience taught him to never say a word unless he had a switched-on microphone in his hand, and the flood of emotions that came forth were all caught on tape. “Jesus, Commander Geitz has been killed, shot in the head…God, the whole back of his head is gone, it’s just one big massive bloody hole…the smell of gunpowder is unbelievable, almost overpowering…Georgie, are you okay? Are you all right?”

“Yes, boss, yes,” Wayne responded. “I’m going to see if anyone else needs help.”

“No!” O’Rourke blurted out, a lot more fearfully than he’d intended. “Don’t leave me…I mean, the smugglers could still be out there! Stay down!”

But Georgie had already taken his recording gear off and was low-crawling along the trail. The members of the American Watchdogs were standing around in dumbfounded shock and disbelief, weapons smoking in their hands, flashlight beams jerking and darting aimlessly in all directions. Wayne moved carefully, not wanting to startle them in case they might start shooting again. He didn’t move very far before he discovered a body. “Oh, Christ, one of the migrants…a woman. Shot in the belly. Another migrant…Jesus, looks like they’re all dead, every one of the migrants.”

“This…this is unbelievable,” O’Rourke repeated hoarsely into his microphone. “There has been a massacre on this trail tonight, my friends and listeners, a massacre on an enormous scale. Eight members of the American Watchdog Project, volunteers, men who risked their lives to help patrol this remote and dangerous border region, have…have apparently shot and killed a group of about twenty migrants on this trail. When Commander Herman Geitz ordered the migrants to put down their bags so they could be searched, one of the migrants apparently opened fire, and the Watchdogs returned fire. More shots rang out—shotguns, handguns…the noise and confusion was horrifying. It…it is just plain impossible to put into words.

“Now, just moments later, it appears that everyone…all the migrants on this trail are dead. Twenty or so illegal immigrants who sneaked across the border and were attempting to infiltrate into the United States of America have been killed, along with the commander of the American Watchdog Project. The smuggler leading this group was afraid of being caught with weapons, afraid of what the Border Patrol might do to them after the horrible assassinations near Blythe, California just a few days ago, afraid of being sent to prison instead of just being released again into Mexico a few days from now, and they were determined not to be taken into custody. So he pulled out a weapon and began firing, and in the confusion, the Watchdogs returned fire, and now…now…my God, the migrants all appear to be dead, every one of them.”

RAMPART ONE FORWARD OPERATING BASE,

OCATILLO, CALIFORNIA

THE NEXT MORNING

The Mexican Army forces stationed on the border south of Rampart One had just raised their flag, played the “Himno Nacional Mexicano,” and were now policing up their encampment when the new unit arrived. An additional six M-11 ULTRAV armored reconnaissance vehicles and HWK-11 armored personnel carriers, and thirty-three infantrymen, pulled up to the encampment in a cloud of gray dust and noise.

The commander of the new unit, Major Gerardo Azueta, dismounted from his American-made Humvee and stretched his aching legs. Azueta was way too tall and thin to comfortably ride in the bumpy, creaky Humvee, but any opportunity to get out of the garrison and into the field was welcome, especially on a low-risk, cushy, and high-visibility assignment such as this. The current unit commander greeted him with a salute. “Welcome, Major,” Lieutenant Salinas said, introducing himself. “Lieutenant Ignacio Salinas, commander of this detail. Good to see you again, sir.” All officers in the Mexican armed forces were graduates of Chapultepec, the Mexican military academy in Mexico City; the officer cadre was very small and officers in the same state knew and saw each other often. “How was your trip from Mexicali?”

“A nightmare, as usual,” Azueta replied, brushing dust off his olive green uniform. “General Cardenas did not want to send any more companies from state headquarters, so we had to move almost the entire force from Ensenada. It took all day. The regimental commander there said he could not spare any infantry to go along with the vehicles, so he rounded up a bunch of Rural Defense Force militia to accompany us. They are worse than conscripts.”

“We have several in my detail, sir. They shape up quickly when they are away from the garrison.”

“I know you and your men are anxious to get home, Lieutenant, but I am afraid these militiamen are going to go berserk if there is any trouble,” Azueta said. “It will only be for a few days, a week at the most.”

Salinas had already received the notification from his company commander. Most men liked duty in the garrisons, but Salinas was young and liked assignments that took him away from town, no matter how trivial or menial the task. He motioned to a nearby tent and offered the senior officer a canvas camp chair and a plastic bottle of water, which Azueta accepted eagerly. “No problem at all, sir. We are happy to assist.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Status report, please.”

“Things have calmed down considerably these past couple days, sir,” Salinas began. “I am sure you are aware of the recent incident in Arizona.”

“Yes. A bloody act of murder, plain and simple. The American government is entirely to blame, allowing those vigilantes to operate in the border region.”

“I agree completely, sir,” Salinas said. “I hope the president does not let up on her pressure on the Americans to stop this campaign of violence. Fortunately, despite that brutal incident, the situation is quiet here. The American military presence is all but nonexistent as far as we can tell from our position and from American news reports. They are making some attempts to repair and rebuild the facility, but it does not look like the base has been fortified, and there has been no sign of those manned robots. We see the reconnaissance airships and unmanned drones on occasion, and we must assume they and the regular Border Patrol units are operational.”

“And the media?”

“They haven’t been back since yesterday,” Salinas responded, “although I would expect them to return for comments on the murders in Arizona.”

“Let me handle the media now, Lieutenant.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“What about smuggler activity?”

“None in our entire patrol sector, sir,” Salinas said, “which was expected. Having smugglers push all the way to remote sections of Arizona was fully expected; and after the incident here, I would have expected much American vigilante activity. Of course, Mexico will be blamed for what has happened here and in Arizona.”

“It was only a matter of time before someone else got killed by vigilantes or right-wing extremists,” Azueta agreed. “The Americans are not stopping the level of violence whatsoever. That will be our biggest challenge: keeping the violence down until the politicians get off their fat asses and come to some sort of agreement.” Salinas nodded. “Let us go inspect the camp, and then we will inspect the border area. Maybe I will even get to meet one of those infamous robots.”

Salinas recalled the armored personnel carrier patrols so Azueta could meet every one of the men in the detail. He was tough but not as tough as in the garrison—he understood the need for discipline, and demanded it, but he also knew they were in the field and certain things, like keeping boots perfectly polished or uniforms perfectly spotless, was going to be difficult at best. He loudly and harshly admonished the noncommissioned officers and men for missing equipment, dirty weapons, or men sleeping at their posts, but he was careful not to openly criticize anyone for not shaving or for rolling up their sleeves in the desert heat. There would be time enough for that back at base.

After the equipment inspection, they got back into the Humvee again and began to drive toward the border area. They hadn’t gone very far when Azueta ordered the driver to stop. He immediately got out of the vehicle, stood on the hood, and peered north. “Lieutenant, when was the last time you did a tactical map of the border and scouted out all of the American patrol units and emplacements?” he asked.

“We redo the map every three hours, sir,” Salinas responded. “The last one should have been done an hour ago.”

“Either your men are liars or they thought they were going to be relieved and did not do it,” Azueta said. “Get up here and take a look.” Salinas did as he was told…and although Azueta handed him his binoculars, he didn’t need them to see the change.

“Two…three…I count three Humvees to the west,” Salinas breathed. “My God, they were not here at daybreak, sir!”

“I count two more to the east, spread out about a kilometer apart,” Azueta said. “They appear to be up-armored scout vehicles with .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the…”

“And TOW missiles, sir,” Salinas interjected excitedly. “It appears every other unit to the west has TOW missile launchers on the gun turrets!”

“That explains their deployment—they are spread out just far enough to have overlapping fields of fire for their TOWs,” Azueta said. “It is the same to the east.” He lowered his binoculars. “Well, well. The Americans have raised the stakes out here. We have a report to make to Mexico City, Lieutenant.”