Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 6

THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

A SHORT TIME LATER

“Mr. President, I must protest this latest move of your military,” President Carmen Maravilloso of Mexico’s voice cried over the speakerphone, echoing throughout the historic room. Even the usually unflappable National Security Adviser, Raymond Jefferson, was startled when he heard the voice as he entered. “Again, you have put armed military forces on our border without consulting or even notifying us beforehand! This is not right, sir! This is not the action of a good and peaceful neighbor, sir.”

“Madame President, as you well know, the United States is not obligated to report the movement of its military forces to Mexico or anyone else, no matter how close to the border.” U.S. President Samuel Conrad responded as calmly as he could. He had been expecting this phone call since issuing the order to Secretary of Defense Russell Collier minutes after receiving the report of the massacre in the Coronado National Forest in Arizona, and he had his cabinet and their staffs working since then to bring him up to speed on the myriad of treaties and agreements regarding military and police action on the U.S.-Mexico border. “This troop movement is in direct response to the murders of twenty-three Mexican nationals in the…”

“I am very well aware of what has occurred, sir,” Maravilloso interrupted, still refusing to use President Conrad’s official title. “But I would have expected an investigation by the local sheriff’s office, perhaps assisted by the FBI or the Arizona State Police, not the American Army National Guard—and certainly not in California. What do you intend to do, sir—invade Mexico with the California National Guard? Those troops on our border have missile launchers! Missile launchers! What will be next—ballistic missiles and stealth bombers?”

“Madame President, the United States intends on pursuing all legal options available to us to ensure the safety and security of our citizens, our nation, and any who are here legally…”

“Do you intend on using the National Guard to hunt down Mexican citizens whose only goal is to do the work that Americans do not want to do themselves?” the fiery Mexican president asked. “That is a hateful and brutal policy, sir, akin to totalitarian regimes in North Korea or Myanmar. The people of Mexico are honest, hardworking, nonviolent, and law-abiding people. True, a few—a very few—have been corrupted by drug dealers to carry drugs; others respond to abuses by gangsters, white supremacists, and corrupt law enforcement officials by arming themselves. Will you condemn them all just for the actions of a few?”

“Madame President, a horrible crime has been committed in Arizona last night,” the President said. With him in the Oval Office was his Chief of Staff, Thomas Kinsly, the Secretaries of Defense, State, and Homeland Security, the President’s National Security Adviser; and the one-star general in charge of deploying those National Guard forces to the southern border, all listening on a listen-only speakerphone. “It was broadcast around the world on the Internet. Nearly two dozen persons were horribly murdered by unknown assailants. The only evidence we have so far is the American Watchdog Project’s own Web broadcast…”

“Do you refer to the right-wing radio instigator Bob O’Rourke and his lackey?” Maravilloso asked incredulously. “Surely you would not for a moment consider them credible witnesses, sir? Bob O’Rourke is one of the world’s most well-known and well-documented racists, a man who has been calling for the elimination of all nonwhites from the border region on his radio show for years. I am positive that he orchestrated this entire murder campaign in order to stir up a campaign of hate against all persons of color…”

“I don’t think that’s an accurate characterization of his opinions, Madam…”

“You agree with this racist? You support his contention that all Mexicans should be hunted down and forcibly removed from the United States?”

“That’s not what he…”

“Obviously you do, because you are doing precisely what Bob O’Rourke has been calling for: putting the military on the border, repealing Posse Comitatus, and removing all Mexicans from the United States. You, sir, are following his hysterical xenophobic fascist ranting to the letter! Please, Mr. President, I urge you: get control of this situation quickly before it gets out of hand.”

“Madam President, I assure you, I’m doing all I can to defuse the growing crisis and deal with the illegal immigration problem,” Conrad said. “Placing National Guard forces on the border is a temporary measure until Congress approves a more comprehensive immigration reform package.”

“Sir, Mexico is here to assist you any way we can,” Maravilloso said, “but it is hard to support you and your government when you make bold, radical moves such as this without consulting us first. You can help me help you by conferring with us beforehand. Good day to you, Mr. Conrad.” The connection terminated abruptly.

“Who does she think she is, speaking to another foreign leader like that?” Thomas Kinsly said as he deactivated the listen-only receiver he had been using to monitor the call.

“She’s using these circumstances to full political advantage, that’s what,” the President said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I’m getting hammered, and she’s looking like a tiger. She’s taken the complete moral high ground here, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”

“Why not let State handle her calls from now on, Mr. President?”

“Because heads of state talk to each other, not to the bureaucracy,” the President replied. “I’ll handle her calls just fine. She’s looking for anything I say to use against me—if I didn’t talk to her, no matter how rude she becomes, I’ll be the coward who didn’t take her call.” Kinsly had no response. The President turned to Attorney General Wentworth. “What do you have on the investigation, George?”

“The FBI is still collecting evidence,” Wentworth said, “but it appears that the migrants were shot by the Watchdogs. The caliber of the weapons used matches the ones the Watchdogs were carrying.”

“Oh, Christ…!”

“Has there been an actual match with the weapons, Mr. Wentworth?” National Security Adviser Ray Jefferson asked.

“Not yet. Those results will be in later today.” He looked at Jefferson closely. “The caliber matched the weapons the Watchdogs were carrying. Why do you want an exact match?”

“Those weapons could have been planted.”

“C’mon, Sergeant Major, that’s overly far-fetched, especially for you,” Kinsly said. “Let’s stick to the facts, shall we?” He turned to the President. “We have got to keep this quiet. If word gets out that the Watchdogs slaughtered those migrants, all hell will break loose.”

“But the video was tracking another group of unknowns,” Jefferson said. “Geitz said they were more migrants, part of the original large group that just split up. What if they weren’t migrants?”

“Who, then?” Kinsly paused, then rolled his eyes. “Oh, you think it was the Consortium, right?”

“I think it’s not just possible—I think it’s probable,” Jefferson said. He raised a message form he held in his hands. “I have an important report from Task Force TALON commander Richter…”

“He’s not still out in the field, is he, Sergeant Major?” Chief of Staff Thomas Kinsly groaned.

“Major Richter met with FBI Director DeLaine yesterday in San Diego, after being debriefed by the FBI and Justice Department after the incident at Rampart One. They spoke with a survivor of that attack on the Border Patrol agents.”

“Say again, Sergeant Major?” the President remarked. “There was a survivor?”

“A veteran Border Patrol agent, shot in the back by the terrorists,” Jefferson said. “Name’s Paul Purdy. He had the wind knocked out of him and fell into a ditch, where he was left for dead. But he’s positive that he heard some of his assailants speaking Russian, and he identified two of the individuals at the scene of the shooting: the Mexican insurgent known as Ernesto Fuerza, and…Yegor Zakharov.”

There were a few moments of stunned silence; then: “Is he positive, Sergeant Major?” the President asked.

“Not one hundred percent, sir, but close. It was dark, and he saw them only at a distance, but Purdy is a reliable, trained eyewitness…”

“It’s not enough to link Mexican insurgents with the Consortium,” Chief of Staff Kinsly said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

“There was another survivor: the smuggler that brought one of the terrorists across the border, the one identified as Victor Flores,” Jefferson said. “Director DeLaine wants to go after that smuggler. Purdy thinks he still might be in the United States, where he was born, possibly somewhere in the agricultural region of southern California. If they find the smuggler, he may be able to gather information on where the others were heading.”

“What does Richter have to do with any of this?” Attorney General Wentworth exclaimed. “He shouldn’t be involved in this operation any further.”

“Director DeLaine has requested Task Force TALON’s assistance in hunting down Flores and the ones that were smuggled into southern California,” Jefferson said. “She wants full authority over TALON to provide the high-tech surveillance support and firepower she needs to take on the terrorists.”

“Those robots—in the hands of the FBI?” Kinsly retorted. “No way, Jefferson.”

“The FBI has plenty of firepower of its own already,” Wentworth said. “They don’t need TALON. TALON was designed for military operations…”

“TALON was designed to replace a light armored cavalry unit or special ops platoon with a single, highly mobile, highly effective weapon system, General Wentworth,” Jefferson said. “The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Teams are the best of the best, but they don’t have nearly the capabilities of a Cybernetic Infantry Device. Judging by what we’ve seen in southern California and now in southern Arizona, I think CID is exactly what we need. And if the Russians Purdy identified turn out to be Zakharov and Consortium terrorists, we’re going to need all the firepower we can get out there.” He turned to the President. “This episode in Arizona could have been one massive setup. The Consortium had plenty of time to plan this ambush in order to make it look like the Watchdogs killed those migrants. They could have even jammed the transmissions from the unmanned aerial vehicle the Watchdogs used to monitor their operation…”

“That’s really stretching credibility, Sergeant Major,” Kinsly said. “No use in speculating until we get more information from the FBI.”

“Until then, we need to prepare in case the word does get out and it does precipitate unrest,” the President said. He turned to the one-star Army general standing in the center of the Oval Office. “General Lopez, I’m impressed you were able to deploy those troops so quickly.”

“Thank you, sir,” the commander of Operation Rampart replied. “I had seven Army National Guard units standing by with orders to deploy on short notice. They were all units previously tasked for border protection duties with Customs and Border Protection—I just put them on a higher readiness level. The California unit was on the highest readiness level and was able to roll within two hours of the incident in Arizona. The Arizona Guard units are rolling now. We’ll have two additional Guard companies on the border in California and Arizona within eight hours, and another seven units in place in all of the border states within seventy-two hours.”

“Outline the plan for me, General.”

“Yes, sir. The plan is simple: reinforce Border Patrol sectors with Army National Guard infantry, reconnaissance, intelligence, and light armored cavalry forces as quickly as possible in order to better patrol the U.S.-Mexico border,” Lopez said. “Our goal is to assign one National Guard company to each sector within the next seventy-two hours. Each company is generally comprised of between seventy and one hundred soldiers, which on average is an increase in manpower of ten to twenty percent in each sector, dedicated solely to field operations.

“Each company fields between six and twelve vehicles. To save on cost and increase maintainability, we rely mostly on reconnaissance and light mechanized infantry units that use the M-998-series Humvees. Each Humvee has two soldiers on board, although for special missions or situations it can have as many as six. They are lightly armed, mostly with infantry weapons such as rifles and sidearms. Their job is to observe, report, and act as directed by the Border Patrol sector commanders.”

“What missiles was Maravilloso talking about, General?”

Lopez looked down at his spit-shined tanker boots for a moment, then stood straight as he replied, “My decision was to beef up the El Centro Border Patrol sector that has those Mexican armored vehicles stationed on the border near Rampart One, sir. I sent in a platoon of Humvees with TOW antitank missiles on board. I thought it was important to counterbalance the Mexican force quickly and effectively, but not raise the ante too much.”

“Christ, no wonder she’s pissed,” Kinsly breathed. “That’s a major provocation!”

“I don’t hear anyone accusing the Mexican Army of a major provocation by sending in armored vehicles across from Rampart One, Mr. Kinsly,” Secretary of Defense Collier said, scowling at the President’s Chief of Staff. “General Lopez did recommend sending Humvees with TOW missiles on them, and I approved the idea, Mr. President. I was more concerned about evening the odds than what Maravilloso or the media might think.”

“Rotate the TOW missile vehicles out of there as soon as possible, General,” the President said. “We’re not trying to start a war here. The Mexican Army isn’t going to attack us. Machine guns and rifles are okay.”

Lopez shuffled uncomfortably and glanced at Collier. The Secretary of Defense stepped closer to the President. “Sam, do you think it’s a good idea to second-guess your field generals at this early stage of the game?” he asked in a low voice.

“You think I’m micromanaging this thing now, Russ?”

“That’s what it sounds like to me, yes, sir. Telling a one-star general which guns his infantrymen can carry…?”

“I’m responsible for what happens out there, Russ…”

“Trust your generals, sir. If Lopez thinks we need TOWs on the border to put the fear of God into the Mexican Army, let him. You put Lopez in charge—let him be in charge.”

Conrad thought for a moment, then shook his head. “This whole operation is controversial enough, Russ—I don’t want to complicate it further by putting major offensive weapons on the damned border. I’m taking enough heat by approving those robots out there—I’m not going to repeat the mistake by putting guided antitank missiles out there. Pull them out—quietly, but get it done.” Collier nodded and stepped back. “General, what’s your next move?”

“Sir, my staff and I feel that the activity at Rampart One has forced smugglers east into the Arizona deserts,” Lopez replied, “so we’re going to concentrate our next deployments in western and central Arizona. The Border Patrol will intensify patrols at the most well-known trails and watering holes, and the National Guard will start patrolling the border region itself.”

“‘Watering holes?’ Are you talking about bars and taverns?”

“Sources of drinking water, sir,” Lopez explained. “There are hundreds of watering holes throughout the deserts in the American South and Southwest. Some are over a hundred years old, set up by miners, ranchers, and conservationists. Some are deep year-round wells; others are little more than mud holes. Over the years various human rights or immigrant rights groups have set up solar-powered wells and portable water tanks to assist immigrants traveling through the deserts. Since they are obvious destinations for immigrants and smugglers, the Border Patrol watches those locations carefully; as a result, human rights groups move the tanks from time to time to throw off La Migra—what the illegals call the Border Patrol. The groups pass the word on the new locations through the migrant information grapevine.”

The President shook his head in frustration. “It’s damned hard to try to put a cap on illegal immigration when citizens in your own country are helping the ones we’re trying to control.”

“We’ll deploy three companies, nine platoons, of Arizona National Guard mobile troops to this next operating area, along with unmanned aerial reconnaissance aircraft and support forces,” Lopez went on. “Each platoon is responsible for patrolling roughly one hundred square miles of the border region. It’s not much: that equates to just one Humvee, two men, patrolling that acreage on each eight-hour shift, with the other units in ready position.”

“Seems like an impossible task, General.”

“We’ll concentrate on known trails and rely on UAVs to spot migrants over the horizon,” Lopez said. The tone of his voice definitely indicated that he agreed, but he would never admit that to the commander in chief. “The more troops we have, of course, the better, but we think we can do the job at this current manpower level.”

“We have very little choice, sir—we’re stretched pretty thin as it is,” Ray Jefferson interjected. “General Lopez is already talking about ten National Guard companies, about a thousand soldiers, deployed to the border region—but that’s for a maximum of thirty days, and a recommended tour of two weeks. So we need at least two thousand soldiers a month at our current manning level, which as the general said is only a ten percent increase.”

The President thought for a moment, then looked directly at each of his advisers in the Oval Office. “What are the alternatives, gentlemen?” he asked. “Sergeant Major?”

“In my opinion, sir, General Lopez doesn’t have enough of the tools he needs to get the job done,” Jefferson said immediately. “His plan calls for the use of only seven National Guard battalions—two from California, three from Texas, and one each from Arizona and New Mexico. Although we’d only be using each company for two weeks, and by law we can use these forces for up to sixty days on an ‘emergency’ basis, they’ll be exhausted after just one or two rotations. We need more troops to maintain even this low level of commitment.”

“So what’s your recommendation?”

“My previous recommendations stand, sir: transfer the Army and Air National Guard bureaus into the Department of Homeland Security instead of the Pentagon; federalize as many units as the states think they can support; and completely reinforce the northern and southern borders and the coastlines.”

“And I’ll renew my disagreement with that recommendation, Mr. President: we can’t just yank over four hundred thousand Army and Air National Guard troops away from the Pentagon, even for something as important as homeland security,” Secretary of Defense Russell Collier said. “It would throw our entire ground military force structure into complete chaos.”

“We’re in a declared state of war since the Consortium attacks, sir—this is the perfect time to make that commitment,” Jefferson said. “I’m positive we’re in a fight against the Consortium, but the Consortium’s activities have switched from attacks against Trans-Global Energy facilities to massive and violent border incursions in order to infiltrate large numbers of men, weapons, and supplies covertly into the United States…”

“There’s no evidence yet of any massive incursions, Jefferson, and scant evidence that the Consortium is involved,” Attorney General George Wentworth interjected. “Yes, the incursions have become more violent recently, but I believe that’s in response to us arming the border. They’re still going to try to come across—but now they’re arming themselves and shooting back.”

“And that is unacceptable to me, General Wentworth…!”

“As it is to me—but adding more fuel to the fire by sending in more troops is not the answer.”

“Then what do you suggest, George?” the President asked. “Let’s hear it.”

“Cancel the National Guard deployments immediately; stand down the units already in the field; ask Congress for an immediate appropriation for ten thousand new Border Patrol agents over the next three years, plus increased funding for unmanned aerial reconnaissance, electronic monitoring, and support from the Justice Department for more judges and detention facilities,” Wentworth responded immediately. “We don’t need the military to secure our borders. We’ve relied on the Border Patrol to do it for over eighty years—let’s beef them up and support them better, but have them continue their work. We can get congressional approval for such a plan—they’ll never buy off on an increased military presence on the borders.”

The President paused again, then looked at his Chief of Staff. “Tom?”

“Putting the military on the border is going to become an increasingly tense and difficult political and foreign relations problem, Mr. President,” Kinsly said. “With all due respect to the Border Patrol agents that were killed and the Mexican citizens and the American killed last night, I believe we’re overreacting by placing troops on the border. As General Lopez and the sergeant major have said, even if we fully implement a military response to this crisis, we won’t be able to completely cut off the flow of illegal migrants—they’ll just find another way to get in. There’s a societal and cultural dynamic here that we won’t be able to solve with government or military intervention.”

“And your recommendation?”

Kinsly glanced at the Secretary of Defense, then said, “Politically we can’t afford to stand down those troops already deployed to the border—it’ll make us look weak, like we caved in to President Maravilloso’s demands. They have to stay, at least for a month or two, assuming there are no more serious acts of violence. But after the furor dies down, they should be quickly and quietly withdrawn. No more military forces on the border”—he looked directly at the National Security Adviser and added—“and especially not the robots.

“I believe our policies should concentrate on fully implementing the guest worker visa program, and tougher penalties for employers who hire outside it,” Kinsly went on quickly. “We can continue to build detention facilities in the desert, but make it clear that we will follow the usual immigration and deportation guidelines. We can announce an expanded detention program for the OTMs—the ‘Other Than Mexicans,’ the ones from countries all over the world who we usually release with orders to appear, but who usually don’t. General Wentworth’s suggestion of about ten thousand more Border Patrol agents over three years is based on a legislative analysis taken not too long ago, indicating a lot of congressional support.”

“Mr. Kinsly, none of those programs solve the problem of terrorists and killers coming across the border,” Ray Jefferson said. “We can take on illegal immigration, sovereignty, border security, and antiterrorism problems all with one move: maintaining a large paramilitary presence on the borders…”

“We’re still not sure if we have a terrorist problem here, Sergeant Major, despite your enlightened guesswork,” Kinsly said. “With all due respect to the Border Patrol agent that survived and your instincts and hunches, I don’t think the United States can afford to mobilize tens of thousands of troops and place them on our borders without concrete evidence.”

It was obvious the President was quickly being swayed. He turned to the Secretary of Homeland Security. “Jeffrey?”

Jeffrey Lemke shook his head. “I hate to be so wishy-washy, Mr. President, but I think the sergeant major goes too far, and the Chief of Staff and Attorney General don’t go far enough,” he said. “I’d sure like to see all of my border security and immigration bureaus get more manpower and funding, of course, but I don’t think putting the National Guard on the borders except to assist the Border Patrol is appropriate. And I sure as heck wouldn’t want the headaches I foresee with gaining four hundred thousand National Guard troops. Homeland Security took two years to finally integrate just forty thousand members of the Coast Guard, and that’s still not fully completed.

“My recommendation is to use the National Guard on a limited basis to assist the Border Patrol, like we do with Customs and the Coast Guard,” Lemke went on. “My own studies, which I haven’t sent out for congressional opinion, point to the need for funding for twenty thousand more Border Patrol agents within five years. That’s a more appropriate level. That’s the same recommendation put forth by General Lopez when he was assigned command of Operation Rampart, and it’s a good one.

“Strategically, without definite actionable information on a specific threat to the United States, we should try to find a political and legislative solution rather than adopt a defensive and clearly threatening posture. Many of Mr. Kinsly’s suggestions sound good to me: a limited guest worker program, more punishment for violators, no ‘catch and release’ for OTMs, longer detention stays, more detention facilities. I feel we’re overreacting to recent events, and we’re in danger of having this situation spin out of control.” He glanced at Jefferson, then added, “I continued to be impressed by the sergeant major’s CID robots and his ambitious plans to deploy them, and I do believe Operation Rampart was a victim of a series of unfortunate mishaps and doesn’t reflect Task Force TALON’s capabilities. But we’re hurting, plain and simple, and I see no downside in drawing down the military aspect and steeply ramping up the legislative and political responses.”

“Sir, it sounds to me like we have a meeting of the minds, if not a full consensus,” Chief of Staff Kinsly said to the back of the President’s head. “Defense says he can’t support a major mobilization or move of the National Guard for border security; Homeland Security doesn’t seem to want them anyway, at least not as part of their roster, but suggests some limited assistance; Justice is in favor of increased Border Patrol manpower. I suggest we draft resolutions and start putting together a plan of action to push these resolutions through Congress. In the meantime, we gradually draw down the National Guard forces on the border in order to quiet the tension ratcheting up around here.”

“I’m in favor of drafting resolutions to support more detention facilities, additional funding for the Border Patrol, a guest worker program, more sanctions against employers who hire undocumented aliens, and all the rest, Mr. President,” National Security Adviser Jefferson said, “but I feel we need to make those moves in an atmosphere of strength and resolve, not weakness. General Lopez’s move to put those Guard forces on the border so quickly after the Arizona incident was a bold, audacious, resolute one—we shouldn’t lose the advantage of surprise and shock it gave us.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And if FBI Director DeLaine thinks she can use Task Force TALON to help her track down any terrorists that may have sneaked across the border, I think we should give it to her.”

“Your loyalty to that group astounds me, Sergeant Major,” the President said. “They’ve done nothing but be a royal pain in the ass to everyone involved ever since that bastard Chamberlain put them together—a move, need I remind you, designed from the beginning to make the government look bad. They’ve done nothing but look bad since day one.”

“Sir, they may look bad, but they’ve been highly successful in their given mission,” Jefferson said. “They may not do the job neat and pretty—no truly effective combat unit or special ops team is known for their tidiness—but they get the job done. They took on the Consortium and other terrorist groups all around the world, and they caught three hundred percent more illegals crossing the border than the Border Patrol.”

“Mr. President, I’m not going to try to support or condemn TALON,” Kinsly said. “I have to admit they’ve had some spectacular successes—unfortunately, their heavy-handed blunders have only served to obscure those successes, at least in a political and public relations sense.” He swallowed when he noticed Jefferson’s glare, but went on: “Speaking as your chief political adviser, sir, I believe TALON is a much bigger liability than they are an asset, because it makes you appear as if you’re not in total control.”

“Well, sir, I’m not a political adviser,” Jefferson said, “but let me try to approach this problem from a political direction: should TALON be placed in the control of the FBI? Right now TALON reports directly to me, which means they report to you. If that’s too politically distasteful, then putting them under Director DeLaine’s authority might be a good thing. It’s an added layer of political insulation from this office.”

“You sure are sounding like a political adviser, Sergeant Major,” the President remarked.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, sir,” Jefferson said.

“It’s a warning: don’t get in over your head.”

“Message received, loud and clear, sir.” Jefferson looked at Kinsly and asked, “Does Director DeLaine suffer from the same adverse political appearance as TALON? My guess is, she does not.”

Kinsly shook his head. “In fact, Director DeLaine polls out extremely well with the public, Congress, and the media,” Kinsly said. “She’s talented, knowledgeable, well spoken, professional, experienced, articulate, and considered a team player by a majority of respondents.”

Jefferson rolled his eyes at the mass of polling data being so easily regurgitated by the White House Chief of Staff—he couldn’t help worrying if that’s what he spoon-fed the President on a daily basis, and how many decisions were made from this office on that basis. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt that she’s young, good-looking, curvy, and unmarried,” Jefferson added sarcastically.

The Chief of Staff looked uncomfortable. “In fact, she tested out well in all those areas too,” he admitted.

Jefferson shook his head sadly. “Goes to show you what the American public really cares about.”

“Point taken, Sergeant Major—now drop it,” the President said irritably.

“Sorry, sir.”

The President fell silent again, but only for a few moments this time: “Tom, issue instructions to General Lopez that he should plan for a complete withdrawal of National Guard forces from the border within sixty days,” the President ordered. “I’ll leave the decision as to which weapons he wants to use to him, but it is my clear desire to use the absolute minimum firepower necessary for self-defense. We’re trying to secure the borders from illegal entry, not defend against a massed armored invasion.

“I want to see a draft resolution for a temporary worker program on my desk by the end of the day today, ready to present to Congress for sponsorship,” the President went on. “I want the bill to include tough penalties for employers who hire undocumented workers after the law goes into effect. I also want draft resolutions for emergency funding for twenty thousand additional Border Patrol agents, a greater number of detention facilities and judges to hear immigration and deportation cases, and more provisions for detaining more OTMs and making sure they appear for immigration hearings. I’m going to table discussions—for now—on having the Guard transferred to Homeland Security and changing the Constitution to prohibit granting citizenship to children born in the U.S. of illegal immigrants, but you can leak it to the press that the White House is looking into those two topics for near-future legislation.”

Kinsly had his PDA out and was wirelessly transmitting notes furiously to his staff. “Got it, Mr. President,” he said.

The President then turned to Ray Jefferson. “Okay, Sergeant Major: convince me that the FBI needs TALON.”

“One name: Yegor Zakharov,” Jefferson responded immediately. “Agent Paul Purdy may not have made an absolutely positive ID, but I believe that’s who we’re dealing with. I think forensic evidence from the shootings in Arizona will reveal Zakharov’s handiwork—as we know, he’s an expert marksman, with a rare and easily identifiable Russian sniper rifle as his weapon of choice. If Zakharov and the Consortium are still in the U.S., it’ll take more than an FBI Hostage Rescue Team or a police SWAT unit to take him down. We’ll need either a Delta Force company, an entire SEAL team, a Marine Special Purpose Force platoon—or one Cybernetic Infantry Device.”

The President paused, looking carefully at Jefferson, studying him, trying to think of another question that the senior Army non-commissioned officer wasn’t prepared for, but finally gave up. “Tom, I want a video conference with the Attorney General, FBI Director DeLaine, and Major Richter as soon as possible.”

“Sir, I would advise against that,” Kinsly said evenly. “The assaults on the federal officers, the killing of that migrant, and the multiple killings at Rampart One are still fresh in people’s minds. Now you want to put those robots on the streets and give them an FBI badge…”

“And a judge’s warrant,” the President added. “That’s exactly what I want to do.” To Jefferson, he said, “Sergeant Major, I’m not relieving you of responsibility for Task Force TALON. You keep them under tight control, or you bring them in and shut them down. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson replied.

At that moment the President’s assistant entered the Oval Office and gave Kinsly a folder. The Chief of Staff reviewed the cover letter quickly, his eyes widening in concern as he read. “Tom…?”

“Transcript of another videotape message by that Comandante Veracruz guy,” Kinsly announced, “distributed to several U.S. and international media outlets, reporting details of the killings in Arizona and calling for a general uprising and retaliation against the U.S. government. The cat’s out of the bag, Mr. President, and Veracruz announced it before we did—that’ll make it look even worse for us.”

The Oval Office erupted into sheer bedlam. Kinsly gave the folder to Jefferson, who speed-read through the transcript. “Detailed, accurate account…no doubt in my mind the Consortium, or Veracruz himself, staged the ambush.”

“That’s absurd!” Kinsly said. “We’re not going to respond to this horrible incident by stating that Veracruz allowed his own people to be killed, when the evidence so far shows that Americans did it! That’s political suicide!”

“It’s the only explanation, sir,” Jefferson said.

“How could Veracruz do it? What did he do…analyze every weapon those vigilantes carried and used only those same weapons to shoot the migrants?” Kinsly asked. “That’s stretching credibility, Jefferson.”

“It’s no secret what weapons they carry, Mr. Kinsly—it’s all on their Web broadcasts and ops report they publish online, in exact detail,” Jefferson said. “It’s possible…”

“The fact is, Jefferson, that when the tape gets broadcast on TV, everyone will believe what this Veracruz guy says,” Kinsly argued. “And the media will broadcast the tape, even if they don’t check its authenticity first. The American Watchdog Project will be called racist murderers, and we’ll be blamed for allowing them to be out there doing the Border Patrol’s job—or, worse, charging that they’re working with the Border Patrol to execute illegal migrants.”

The President thought for a moment; then turned to Ray Jefferson. “Sergeant Major, get TALON moving out there to find this other eyewitness so we can prove that Zakharov is still in the country and working with Veracruz…”

“But, sir,” Kinsly protested, “if the press sees those robots out there, and they’re even seen anywhere near the illegal immigrant population, it’ll look like we’re organizing a government-sponsored vigilante terror campaign against them, first with the Watchdogs and then with Task Force TALON. We’ll be roasted alive by the press and…”

“If it is Zakharov out there attacking the Border Patrol and working with Veracruz to incite violence, we’re going to need all the firepower we can get,” the President said. “I’m not going to run and hide while some Russian terrorist and some drug-smuggler punk create a nationwide race riot in the United States. Task Force TALON may be America’s bull in the china shop, but they get the job done. I just hope they can find Zakharov and Veracruz before it’s too late.”

He turned to Jefferson and jabbed a finger. “But they do it by the book, Ray—that means search warrants and rock-solid evidence before they go in the field. I don’t want any repeats of the Rampart One fiasco, Sergeant Major, or the robots get sent to the trash compactor, and you and Richter spend what’s left of your military careers distributing deodorant in Djibouti. Get on it.”

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE

UNITED MEXICAN STATES, PALACIO NACIONAL,

ZOCALO, MEXICO CITY

THAT SAME TIME

“He dared put the military on the border without consulting me—twice!” Mexican president Carmen Maravilloso said angrily, nearly tossing the phone on the floor in anger before her aide Pedro could collect it and safely put it out of reach. “How dare that man ignore me? I am the president of the United Mexican States!”

Women in general and especially women outside the home were never very highly regarded in Mexico, and female politicians even less so, but Maravilloso—her given surname was Tamez, but she changed it when she became a national news anchorwoman on Mexico’s largest television network years earlier—fought to change that perception. Maravilloso’s entire political life had been a struggle, and she used every trick in the book—personal, feminine tricks as well as political—to get an advantage.

After becoming one of Mexico’s most popular and recognizable television personalities in both news and variety entertainment shows, she married a young, up-and-coming politician seven years her junior and helped him ascend from virtual political obscurity to become first the governor of Mexico’s largest state, then president of the United Mexican States. Like Jacqueline Kennedy in the United States, Carmen Maravilloso was just as popular as her husband, not just in Mexico but around the world. She liked being around the rich and powerful and could hold her own in just about any forum anywhere in the world, from attending the Little League World Series in Taiwan with Fidel Castro, to a state dinner at the White House, to conducting a surprise guided tour of the presidential palace with one hundred astonished visitors.

The Mexican revolutionary constitution prohibited the president from running for reelection until six years after leaving office, and since that law had always been assumed to apply equally to the president’s spouse, everyone believed Maravilloso would go back to being a television personality after her husband’s six-year term ended. She had different ideas. Her surprise candidacy was immediately challenged by her political foes, and the question went all the way to the Mexican Supreme Court, where the twenty-five-judge court ruled against her in a hair-thin majority: in order to prevent the establishment of a nepotistic quasimonarchy, no member of a president’s immediate family could run for president within one full term, six years, of the president leaving office.

But that didn’t stop her either: Maravilloso requested and received an annulment of her marriage from the Roman Catholic Church, on the grounds that her husband defied the Church’s wishes by not wanting children. It was widely thought that the situation was the reverse, but her husband did not contest the pleading—convinced not to do so, it was rumored, with a secret eight-figure tax-free divorce settlement.

In a country that had the fourth-lowest divorce rate in the world in which the Roman Catholic religion was recognized as the official state religion in the constitution, this shocked the Mexican people—but delighted most of the rest of the world, including women in the United States of America, who saw Maravilloso’s candidacy as a boon to women’s rights and a slap at the powerful male-dominated macho culture in most of the Third World. Although this development too was argued in front of the Mexican Supreme Court, popular opinion in favor of Maravilloso’s courage and dedication was loud and insistent, and the court refused to consider the case. Maravilloso won her election in a landslide.

She was a woman who was accustomed to getting what she wanted, and no one—especially no male, not even the President of the United States—was going to deny her. Carmen Maravilloso was in her early fifties but looked younger by at least ten years, with long flowing black hair, dark eyes usually hidden behind designer sunglasses, and a slender, attractive figure. She was a tough, no-nonsense politician, known for occasionally lighting up a Cuban cigar and letting an expletive or two “slip” past her full red lips when the opportunity suited her.

“How dare he do this without consulting us?” Maravilloso screeched. She lit up a Cohiba Exquisito and wielded the thin cigar like a dagger, aiming it at everyone she spoke to. She aimed it first at the Minister of National Defense, General Alberto Rojas: “I want twice as many soldiers on the border as the Americans have. How many can we send there?”

“Madame President, they have as many troops just in the state of California as we do in our entire army,” the general said. “We cannot outgun them.”

“They are only National Guard troops…”

“I am talking about the National Guard, madam,” he said. “California is the most populous state in America and can field a vast number of paramilitary forces—even though heavily committed around the world, their national guard outnumbers even our regular military forces in every category. You do not want to escalate a military confrontation, señora.”

“Then we will take our case to the United Nations Security Council and to the Organization of American States,” Minister of Internal Affairs Felix Díaz said as he breezed through the doors to the president’s office. “This situation is becoming an international crisis, Madam President, and we should respond accordingly.”

“Minister Díaz!” Maravilloso exclaimed happily. “We were afraid you were dead after your stunt the other day, riding around in your helicopter and inciting riots.”

“I thank you for your concern, Madam President,” Díaz said, smiling and bowing. Tall, young, and impossibly handsome, he hailed from several generations of rich, powerful hacienda owners dating back to the original Mexican land grants from the royal court in Madrid, Spain. His family had managed to keep the majority of their lands by aligning with whichever side had more power at the time—the military, the Catholic Church, the revolutionaries, the Communists, the Spanish, the Bonapartists, even the Americans: whoever could benefit the Díaz family the most received their political and financial allegiance…until power shifted again.

Díaz was educated in the finest private schools in Mexico, attended the military academy at Chapultepec, went to undergraduate flight training in Arizona, then served four years in a variety of flying units in the Fuerza Aerea Mexicana, the Mexican Air Force, including one year as squadron commander of an air combat squadron of F-5A Freedom Fighter air defense jets and AT-33A propeller trainers modified for counterinsurgency missions.

While commanding the 202nd Air Combat Squadron in Santa Lucia, Díaz helped organize and conduct a series of exercises with the Cuban Air Force, where he flew his F-5s against several different models of MiG fighters and fighter-bombers. He received considerable attention from generals and defense ministers from around the world for his political as well as flying skills. He served out his military commitment as the Mexican air attaché to the Caribbean and Latin America, shuttling all over the hemisphere almost on a daily basis on behalf of the Mexican government.

Even though he spent eight successful years in the Mexican armed forces, Felix Díaz was destined for politics almost from birth. For most of the past eighty years, his family were loyal and high-ranking members of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional, or PRI. But Felix Díaz saw something happening that others failed to see: the emergence of a tremendous groundswell of support for a strong-willed, outgoing, hardworking, and hard-charging woman, Carmen Maravilloso, and her young husband. Mexican culture was slowly but surely changing, just as surely as its politics—Díaz knew he had to change with it, or be left behind.

He switched party allegiance to the Partido Accion Nacional just in time for the surprise ascension of Maravilloso’s husband, bringing a considerable amount of money and national prestige along with him, and was offered several positions in the new government as a reward. His personal gamble paid off, as he knew from past generations it would. When Carmen took the office of president, Díaz was immediately appointed Minister of Internal Affairs, the third-highest-ranking position in the executive branch of the Mexican government.

“I like that idea—let us go before the Security Council,” Maravilloso said. “Amassing those troops on the border is a clear provocation, meant to falsely imprison Mexican citizens and force unfair and oppressive economic and political terms on a peaceful neighbor. Very good suggestion, Minister Díaz.” She turned to another one of her advisers in her office: “General Rojas?”

“I agree that a diplomatic response would be far better than a military one, Madam President,” General Alberto Rojas, the silver-haired, grandfatherly-looking Mexican Minister of National Defense, said. “The more military forces the Americans place on the border, the worse it looks for them. Since President Conrad when asked did not tell you exactly why he placed all those heavily armed troops on the border, we have every right to demand that the UN and OAS get an answer. The UN General Assembly will surely be open to—”

“No. We will not go to the General Assembly—we will go directly to the Security Council,” Maravilloso said, taking a deep drag on her cigar. “This is no mere water, cattle-grazing, or cultural exchange issue—with missile-launching vehicles and armed helicopters flying dangerously close to our towns and villages, threatening our people with death or imprisonment, this is certainly an urgent national security issue.” The defense and foreign affairs ministers looked at each other worriedly but said nothing. “And I will address the Security Council myself.”

“I do not believe that is wise, Madam President,” Rojas said. “Addresses to the Security Council should be on issues that threaten peace and stability not just for the states involved, but for the entire world community. This incident, although serious to be sure, poses no imminent danger to the rest of the…”

“I do not care!” Maravilloso said. “I want this issue brought up before the Security Council, and I wish to present it myself. Do not tell me what reality for the world or for Mexico is. ¡Soy México! I am Mexico! Now make it happen! And get my speechwriters busy drafting up my address to the Council! I want a draft on my desk in four hours.”

Rojas looked at Maravilloso and sighed with obvious exasperation. “I will do as you say, Madam President,” he said with a defeated smile, “but I urge you not to use this situation for political or personal ventaja. I know it is in your nature to do so, but let us deal with this situation openly and honestly, not just to appeal to the television cameras.”

“What do you know of it, you old goat?” Maravilloso asked with an alluring, disarming smile on her face. “You are a good and wise fellow in international geopolitics, Alberto, but what you know about public relations and how to get the world’s attention for a worthy and noble cause wouldn’t even fill a thimble.”

“That may be so, Carmen.” Rojas stepped over to the beautiful, fiery president of Mexico as she smoked her Cuban cigar and made notes to herself at her desk. “But in my opinion, Mexico will not be served by doing anything just for the publicity value. Mexico already has an international reputation for poverty, crime, and corruption. More and more of our people are leaving every year, and the workers that leave are sending back less and less of the money they earn. We are losing our best workers, and we get little in return. This is a legitimate concern for Mexico—let’s treat it as such.”

“Do not give so much credit to the United Nations or the Security Council, General Rojas,” Felix Díaz said. “Do you expect them to do anything about our out-of-control émigré problem? Every industrialized country in the Western world has an immigration problem. The current rotating chairmanship of the Security Council is held by Australia, who has an illegal immigration problem ten times worse than the United States—they have illegal immigrants from most of Polynesia and half of Asia invading their shores every day. Do you think they will be sympathetic to us? You know as well as I that the United Nations Security Council is nothing but a collection of painted toy bobble-heads that respond only when rapped on the head—whoever raps hardest gets their nod.”

Rojas remained silent, but inwardly he felt a twinge of concern as he looked at this young politician. Díaz was intelligent, but he was also impulsive—and Maravilloso was quite simply enamored with him. It was a dangerous—no, an explosive—combination.

“I have told you this many times before, Alberto—there are proper channels to follow to get things done, and then there are my channels,” Maravilloso went on. “I wish to speak before the Security Council because I know my speech will be carried live by half the news outlets in the world. I will be on the covers of a hundred magazines and several hundred newspapers around the world—not just major outlets and political rags, but every kind of publication: fashion, teens, gossip, human rights, celebrity, even lesbian publications, reaching hundreds of millions around the world. With all your education and wisdom, my friend, and with all due respect, do you think you have any chance in hell of getting that kind of coverage?” She took another deep puff of her cigar, her perfume mixing with the smooth, aromatic aroma of the cigar, forming a musky, intoxicating potion. “I am not seeking action from the United Nations, Alberto—I am looking for a reaction from the people, Alberto.”

“People? What people? The Mexican people? Perhaps one percent of our people read newspapers or watch television for hard news stories. Who is your target audience? What is your message?”

“There are millions of wealthy Latinos in North America that want to be told what to do for their motherland, General, and President Maravilloso is the one who should tell them,” Díaz said confidently. “They, or their parents, a relative, or a close friend, managed to escape the crushing poverty and creeping despair of their homelands, and they all feel the guilt of abandoning their motherland. Even if they gave up everything they owned, left their wives and children, sat in a sweltering U-Haul truck or cargo container for days or even weeks with three dozen other refugees, walked across miles of scorching desert with nothing but a jug of water, or floated for days in homemade rafts to reach American shores, they feel the guilt of leaving their brothers and sisters behind. The more money they make in the New World, the guiltier they feel.”

“They are the ones I will reach,” Maravilloso chimed in. “They are the ones who will help us.”

“Help us? Help us…do what?” Rojas asked, almost begging. “What is it you want to do, Madam President?”

“Induce the American Congress to pass a simple guest worker program, one without onerous conditions, bureaucracy, and requirements,” Díaz said. “The current program making its way through Congress would require all Mexican citizens to return to Mexico first before applying. If even half of those that wished to comply did so, it would bankrupt this country! Can you imagine the chaos that would erupt if ten million men, women, and children returned to Mexico over the next five years?”

Rojas glared at Díaz, showing his displeasure at cutting off his conversation with Maravilloso. He was definitely being ganged up on here, and he didn’t like it. “I agree, Minister, that it would place an enormous burden on our government…”

“And do you think for one minute that the American government will pay for any of it? No way.” Maravilloso took another angry puff of her cigar.

“If the United States wants Mexican workers, they need to pass legislation that will allow them to apply for a guest worker program from wherever they are—which will be working away in farms, factories, kitchen, and laundry rooms all across America, doing the work the lazy, pretentious Americans will not do,” Diaz said determinedly. “The government does not need to uproot families, destroy jobs, drain our economy, and create a tidal wave of economic and political refugees just to appease the far-right conservative neofascists in their country.

“And if they want to apply for American citizenship, they should be rewarded for their courage and service to America by receiving it automatically—no tests, no classes, no more paperwork. If they work for five years, keep their noses clean, pay their taxes, and learn the language, they should not have to do anything more than raise their right hand and swear loyalty to the United States—even though they have already demonstrated their loyalty by sacrificing all to live and work in America.”

“I agree, Minister, I agree—we have had this discussion many times before,” Rojas said patiently. “We and the citizen groups and human rights organizations we sponsor have been lobbying the American Congress for many years to pass meaningful, open, fair, and simple guest worker legislation. We cannot do more than what we are already doing.”

“I do not believe that,” Díaz said. “Even stuffy, old blowhard American politicians respond to issues that grab headlines and the public’s attention.”

“I know the American media,” Maravilloso said. “I know how the people are riveted to the right controversy or the right personality.”

“Well, you can certainly be that personality, Madam President,” Rojas said. “But do you think the American people will listen to you now after one of your Council of Government ministers incited a riot in their detention facility?”

“You have seen the polls as well as I, General,” Díaz said. “The polls indicate that most Americans thought that detention facility was illegal, evil, demeaning, and un-American…”

“But those same polls also said that you were wrong to call for those detainees to break free and riot, even though most did not like the sight of immigrants being penned-up like animals in the hot desert,” Rojas pointed out. “A slight majority blame you, Madam President, for our people’s deaths and for that soldier’s suicide.”

“I am not worried about slight majorities,” Maravilloso said, waving her cigar dismissively. “The point is, Alberto, Americans are divided and unsure of what should happen. They are afraid of acts of terrorism, and they are certainly paranoid, bigoted, and xenophobic—even the blacks and other minorities who have suffered under white bigotry and hatred dislike the thought of Mexicans crossing the borders illegally and taking jobs. But then when the government actually does something about it, like build a detention facility or put even a very few troops on the border, they strongly condemn it.”

“It is the politically correct thing to oppose any new government excess, especially when it involves imprisoning or even slightly affecting a weaker person’s life…”

“This is much more than just political correctness—it is even more than trying to deal with racism and bigotry,” Felix Díaz said. “I believe the American people want to be led on this issue. They want a person to step forward, speak to them, give them their thoughts and arguments plainly and simply, and have a plan to do something about the matter. Right now, all they have is the government and neofascist wackos like Bob O’Rourke preaching hate and fear to them. O’Rourke is a powerful personality—it will take someone equally as powerful to get our side of the argument across to the people. Preferably someone younger, smarter, and better-looking than he.”

“That person will be difficult to find,” Rojas said. He looked on nervously as he saw Maravilloso and Díaz silently gaze into each other’s eyes. “What do you wish to do, Madam President?” he asked, trying to break the spell between them.

“Get out of here and get back to work, you old goat,” Maravilloso yelled after him jovially. “I wish to speak with Minister Díaz for a few minutes. Have the chief of staff report to me then. And find a way to make the damned Americans back off, or I will have your cojones in a jar on my desk—if you still have any! Now you may leave.” Before departing, Rojas shot her a warning glare, which he doubted she noticed.

“Ah, the smell of a good Cuban cigar,” Díaz said, walking toward Maravilloso. “Your husband never smoked cigars except for photo opportunities, as I recall, and he would only smoke Mexican-made cigars, like a good nationalist. I am glad you are a true aficionado.”

“Why do you bring him up, Minister Díaz?”

“The scent of your cigar reminded me that your husband chose never to be alone with you in the presidential office because he was afraid of what the people might think was going on,” Díaz said, a mischievous smile on his face. “A woman of your beauty, your passion, your energy—he was afraid people might think you and he spent all your time fornicating on the president’s desk. He was always so proper, so totally in control of everything—his environment, his image, his words, his emotions.”

“So?”

Díaz stepped closer to the president of Mexico, slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer to him, and kissed her deeply. “Ay, I am so glad you are not like him,” Díaz breathed after their lips parted. “I always feel your fire, your passion, your spirit whenever I walk into this room. I could never keep it contained.”

“Felix, would you please just shut up and bring your hard Spanish paro over here, now?” she breathed, and pressed her body tightly against his as they kissed again.

They both explored, then used each other’s bodies quickly, efficiently, tactically—they were in tune with each other’s passion and could tell immediately how the other wanted it and knew exactly how best to get the other to that level. Maravilloso kept the shades drawn and her desk cleared off for exactly that reason. It was polvo, not lovemaking, but they both knew it and both accepted it because to do otherwise would not serve either of their desires or ambitions.

They shared what was left of her Cuban cigar afterward as they straightened their clothing and she fixed her makeup. “Did you tell Pedro to give us at least twenty minutes this time before he is to call, darling?” Díaz asked.

“Fifteen. You are quicker than you believe you are, jodonton.”

“Get a decent sofa and a door that locks from the inside, and I’ll be slower, culito.” She smiled like a schoolgirl on her first date—he was the only man in the Federal District who ever had the nerve to swear and talk dirty in front of her, even before he learned how aroused she got by it. “So. Rojas is all worried about the California National Guard, eh? Tell him to stop worrying. The Americans will be gone from the border before you know it.”

She was disturbed that he knew about her adviser’s fears, as if he had been in the meeting with them just now. “The Politicos are not still bugging my office, are they, Felíx?” she asked, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“I told you I took all of the Politico’s bugs out months ago, my dear,” Díaz said. “I do not need to bug the general’s office to hear what he has to say—a few shots of tequila or glasses of cerveza in the afternoon and his deputies and aides blab like a housewife on her neighbor’s fence. I pretend to be talking on my cell phone in his outer office and I can hear everything he says quite clearly.”

Felix Díaz knew a lot about chatty members of the Mexican government. It was the duty of the Minister of Internal Affairs to protect the republic, constitution, government, and courts from threats from inside the country, a purposely broad and far-reaching responsibility. Along with overseeing the ministry itself, Díaz had control of several other important bureaus and agencies in the government, including the Federal District Police, Political Police, Border Police, and the Rural Defense Force. Felix Díaz had extraordinary powers of investigation and commanded a large and well-equipped paramilitary force that equaled, and in some areas exceeded, the power of the armed forces.

Numbering over five thousand agents, technicians, and support staff, the Political Police, or Politicos, investigated any possible threats to all Mexican political institutions, including the president, legislature, the judiciary, the treasury, the Council of Government, political parties, opposition groups, and insurgent or revolutionary groups. Within the Political Police was a clandestine unit of almost five hundred specially trained and equipped agents called the Escuadrilla Especial De las Investigaciones, but known by their nickname Los Sombras—the “Shadows”—their identities secret to all but Díaz and José Elvarez, Deputy Minsiter of Internal Affairs. The Sombras could seize any documents they deemed necessary, wiretap any phone, open any door or safe deposit box, access any record, and arrest any person for any reason whatsoever—or for no reason at all.

Of course, Carmen Maravilloso knew all this—which is why she first appointed him to the position of Minister of Internal Affairs, and then began sleeping with him. At best she could keep an eye on him and use her feminine charms on his postpubescent urges to keep him sympathetic and loyal to her, as much as any man could stay loyal to a woman; at worst, their affair might buy his silence, or at least cause a lot of distrust against him among others in the government. The culture of machismo still existed, even in the highest levels of Latino government—women, even powerful and influential women working outside the home, were not to be taken advantage of. They could be subdued, embarrassed, even silenced. But a man’s power over a woman was assumed to be absolute and universal, and it was in poor taste for a man to abuse his God-given sexual, physical, or anthropological power and authority against the weaker sex.

But it turned out that Felix Díaz was a good choice for the post, because he appeared to have no burning vendetta against any person or political party and didn’t seem to have any sort of resentment against a woman being his superior. His extreme wealth, and his family’s long-standing policy of siding with whoever was in power or soon to be in power, left him with few strong enemies. He had personal political aspirations, of course—it was no secret that he wanted to be president of Mexico, a position that no others in his family had ever attained. But, typically, politicians in Mexico tried to exploit the least little bit of power they attained, and at least as far as Maravilloso’s trained eye could see, Felix Díaz was not acting like a typical Mexican politician.

Even so, she was careful to be forever watchful for any signs of a power grab by this man or any other man close to her. No politician in Mexico could afford to be a nice guy, even nice guys like Felix Díaz. She had made a woman’s mistake by letting him take sexual liberties in this, her base of power—that made her vulnerable. If he ever exhibited any desire whatsoever to take advantage of that vulnerability, she would have to squash it immediately.

Now it was time to challenge him, put him back on the defensive, before he had a chance to even pull up the fly on his pants: “How in hell do you know what the Americans will do, Felix?” she asked.

“One of my agents intercepted a message sent from Washington for the American ambassador here in Mexico City,” Díaz said. “The message stated that effective immediately their Operation Rampart was suspended and all of their Cybernetic Infantry Devices were being withdrawn from the border.”

“So? We already know they have replaced those robots with National Guard troops. They haven’t withdrawn—if anything, they have increased and reinforced their presence.”

“Our informants in Washington tell us that the American President has summoned the commander of those National Guard forces to the White House, as well as the Secretary of Defense and the Attorney General, and that he is not happy at all,” Díaz said, wiping bright red lipstick from his neck and straightening his necktie. “The analysts say he will gradually pull forces back from the border so it will not look like a retreat. He does not want to be seen as backing down in the face of pressure from Mexico. But he will back down.”

“Perhaps—until the next terrorist or smuggler decides to kill an American vigilante or Border Patrol agent,” Maravilloso said bitterly. She looked at him carefully. “You insist these attacks are not being done by Mexicans, Felix, but then you give me reports of yet another videotape being distributed by this ‘Comandante Veracruz’ character, inciting the Mexican people to commit even more atrocities. How sure are you that these attacks are not being perpetuated by him?”

“I am not sure of much when it comes to Veracruz, Carmen.”

Her stare intensified. “You seem to have very good, reliable contacts throughout the world, Felix,” Maravilloso said suspiciously, “but I find it very strange that you cannot tell me very much about Veracruz. Why is that, Felix?”

“Because he is probably not Mexican,” Diaz replied. “All of our internal investigations have come up empty so far, and most foreign governments will not share information on anyone who might have had specialized military or guerrilla training.”

“Well, what can you tell me about him?”

“Just the basics. His name is Ernesto Fuerza, reported in a French newspaper interview a couple years ago but never independently verified. His nationality is unknown. He is in his late thirties or early forties, male, tall, and slender…”

“I mean some real information about him, Felix,” she said irritably. “The whole world knows that trivia—I read all that last week in People magazine…”

“Next to the article on you, I noticed, the one on ‘The New Faces of Mexico.’” She gave him a warning glare, and Díaz’s tone turned serious: “The uniform he often wears looks American, English, or Canadian, and the headdress he wears looks very Middle Eastern—very confusing to analysts. His Spanish is good, but it sounds more South American, perhaps Brazilian or Venezuelan, more sophisticated, more European. He obviously has some military training, judging by the way he speaks and the way he holds a weapon…”

“How can you tell anything by how one holds a weapon?”

“A trained man will never put his finger on a trigger unless he is ready to shoot—he will lay his finger on the side of the trigger guard,” Diaz said. “That is pounded into a soldier from the first moment he is given a gun.”

“What else?”

“Everything is guesswork and speculation—it can hardly even be called ‘analysis,’” Díaz admitted. “One thing is for certain: he is bound to slip up, try to cross the border once too often, or take a shot at the wrong target, and he will either be dead or captured. Revolutionaries do not have much of a shelf life these days, since the Americans started clamping down hard on anyone who might even remotely smell like a terrorist.” Díaz fell silent for a moment. Then, “Maybe we should not be trying to hunt this man down,” he said. “Maybe we should use him instead.”

“Bad idea, Felix,” Maravilloso said. “He is certainly popular all around the world. But the magazine articles state he was—perhaps still is—a drug smuggler. Why would I want to be associated with such a man?”

“I do not think it matters much,” the Minister of Internal Affairs said. “As long as he is truly committed to helping the Mexican people who choose to work in the United States, I think our cause would be greatly helped. A slight imperfection might enhance his character a bit.”

“There is no way on earth we can find that out for sure without a face-to-face meeting.”

“I can make it happen, Carmen.”

“A meeting with the infamous Comandante Veracruz?” Her face turned from serious to thoughtful. “You are the one person in the world who could pull off such a meeting, my dear.” Maravilloso thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Collect more information on this man—hopefully even capture him so you can question him directly.”

“Or kill him, if necessary, if he proves a threat to your administration’s plans to work with the Americans and solve this immigration dilemma,” Diaz said matter-of-factly.

Maravilloso smiled, stepped over to Díaz, put her arms around him, and kissed his lips. “Why, Felix, you almost sound as if you really care about what happens to me,” she said.

He kissed her again, grasping her shoulders seriously. “I admitted to you from the first day we met that I aspired to the presidency, Carmen,” he said. “We even would not talk about marriage for that very reason, although you know how much I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I am not your political rival, or just your lover. I am a member of your government, and I am a Mexican. Whether you believe it or not, I do care about what happens to our country—and yes, I care about this government too, if for no other reason than I will have less to clean up after assuming this office.”

“Do not try to pretend that you care that much, Felix,” Maravilloso said. She pushed away from him and looked at him with great concern. “Why that stunt with the helicopter, Felix? You embarrassed me on worldwide television. You provoked a riot while I was talking to the President of the United States!”

“Carmen, I was out there inspecting that base firsthand—I didn’t go out there to incite a riot or embarrass you,” Diaz said. “It just made me angry that our people were being herded around like that. I wanted to be sure they knew their government was there looking out for them.”

“That is my job, Felix—yours is to inform me of developments like this Rampart One abomination and help me decide the best course of action,” Maravilloso said. “We need to keep avenues of dialogue open with the Americans, not shut them down. Do you understand, Felix?”

“Of course, Madam President.”

The phone on her desk rang. She kissed him again, then held his face between her hands. “What in hell am I going to do with you, Felix Díaz?” she asked, then released him and went to her desk and picked up the phone. “I told you not to disturb me,” she said into the receiver. “I will kick you in the…what? He what? Bring it in here immediately!” She hung up the phone.

“Fifteen minutes, on the dot,” Díaz said.

“This is the real thing, Felix—another videotape by that Veracruz character, released to the press, with a detailed account of the incident in Arizona and calling for a worldwide insurgency against America to avenge the killings.”

“The man might be a genius,” Díaz said. “Imagine the power one could have if she could sway every Hispanic man and woman in the United States, Carmen! Imagine the influence one could have if you could take one tenth of America’s entire workforce and not only order them not to show up for work, but to rise up against their employers! The American government would be forced to make a just deal for worker amnesty!”

“This Fuerza guy is a complete unknown—worse than a loose cannon, he is a criminal with a popular following,” Maravilloso said. “How can you trust someone like that?”

“I think it is worth a try,” Díaz said. “I might be able to use my special investigators, the Sombras, to find this man.”

Maravilloso was silent for a long moment, then: “This is something I cannot support, Felix,” she said finally. “This Fuerza is too dangerous. He could turn on his handlers in an instant, like a wild animal trainer surrounded by lions.”

“You and he, together—it would certainly be a very powerful combination.”

She looked at him with a knowing smile. “Or it could be a disaster, and you would certainly benefit from that, would you not, Felix?” He did not reply. “You are not ready to give up your chance at the presidency of Mexico…for me,” she said. His smile dimmed, only for a moment, but she knew she had hit her target. She made a little show of acting disappointed, happy that she had uncovered a tiny bit of the man, the real man, before her; then, as her assistant came into the office after a very quiet knock, shrugged her shoulders. “Good day to you, Minister Díaz,” she said icily. “Please come again.” Her tense body language and hooded eyes told him the meeting was definitely over—perhaps for good—and he departed with a courteous bow and no words.

Díaz paid courtesy visits on several government officials in the Palacio Nacional, shook hands with visitors, and made a brief statement in the press office about the worsening situation on the U.S.-Mexican border but said that he was confident that all could be resolved peacefully. Then he headed to his waiting car. The Ministry of Internal Affairs was located on the other side of the Federal District from the Palacio Nacional, south of the president’s residence on Constitution Avenue in the center of the Bosque de Chapultepec, so even with a police escort it would take a long time to make it back to his office.

Although Díaz had ready access to a helicopter—he could even fly it himself, and had done so many times—he preferred the relative peace and quiet of his specially outfitted armored Mercedes S600 sedan and its wide array of secure voice, data, and video communications equipment, specially installed himself and tied into the government communications net only one way—he could access all government systems and networks, but they could not access his. With a police escort, he could get back to his office relatively quickly. He donned his lightweight headset and called back to his office and was immediately connected to José Elvarez, deputy minister of Internal Affairs, director of operations of the Political Police and of the Sombras, or Special Investigations Unit. “Report, José,” Díaz ordered.

“Follow-up report regarding the visit by TALON One and Two and FBI Director DeLaine in San Diego, sir,” Elvarez said. The computer screen in the back of the sedan came to life. It showed a photograph, obviously taken from the ground at a street intersection, through the clear windshield of a dark government-looking armored Suburban. Four persons could clearly be seen in the photo, two men and two women, seated in the rear two forward-facing rows of the vehicle, plus a driver and woman sitting in the front passenger seat. “Subjects were photographed leaving the FBI field office yesterday. The second man has just been identified as Paul Purdy, one of the U.S. Border Patrol agents believed to have been killed near Blythe, California.”

“Mi Díos,” Díaz breathed, studying the digital photo. Damn, a survivor, a witness—that could be a very significant development. “Where did they take him?”

“They first went to Montgomery Airport, where DeLaine, her female bodyguard, and TALON Two were dropped off at her jet, and then the others went to a charity store in downtown San Diego,” Elvarez said. The Sombras had managed to plant tracking devices on most of the American official government vehicles, and although the bugs were usually discovered and deactivated within a few days, quite often they could still get a great amount of useful intelligence from them. “They purchased several bags of clothes.”

“Clothes, eh? From a charity used-clothing store? Sounds like they are going undercover.”

“After that, they went to a market and came out with several more bags of supplies, then got on Interstate 15 northbound. We lost GPS tracking a few minutes later and notified all of our southern California lookouts to watch for the vehicle.”

“And did someone spot it?”

“Yes, sir. It was observed arriving at the U.S. Border Patrol sector field office in Indio, California.”

Interesting, Díaz thought—the heart of the Coachella Valley, with a very large concentration of illegal immigrants and smugglers nearby. “And then?”

“After two hours, TALON One and Purdy were observed wearing civilian clothes and getting into an unmarked civilian-asset-seizure vehicle. We had this vehicle under both electronic and agent surveillance. The vehicle was heading south on Route 196. The agents we had following the vehicle terminated visual contact when they suspected Purdy was making some countersurveillance turns, so we lost visual contact, but we are still tracking it electronically.”

“Interesting,” Díaz commented. “This Border Patrol agent, Purdy, seems quite resourceful. He may require some…diligencia especial.”

“Understood, sir,” Elvarez said. “The vehicle made several stops along Route 196 and Highway 111 before stopping last night at a motel south of Niland. We have not made direct visual contact with the subjects in the past few hours but we now have their vehicle under both visual and electronic surveillance.”

“I need round-the-clock direct visual contact on the subjects, José,” Díaz said. “Put your best men on this one. This Agent Purdy seems very well trained and experienced—unusual for a Border Patrol agent. He may be getting countersurveillance help from Richter and Vega, so tell your men to be extra careful, or they could be face-to-face with one of those robots.”

“My best men in southern California are already on it, sir.”

“Good. Now we need to find out what those three are up to.”

“Unfortunately we do not have any listening devices in the FBI field office in San Diego,” Elvarez said. “We can monitor comings and goings but cannot reliably tap their phone or data transmissions without risking discovery. The same is true for all of the high-level American government offices in southern California.”

“But we do have some good human intelligence…the consular office in San Diego,” Díaz said. “The consulate has excellent connections in the U.S. Attorney’s office. I think it’s time to send the consul back out there to see what he can find out. That will be all, José. Find those three Americans and try to determine why they are playing spymaster.” He terminated the secure phone call.

A survivor of that attack near Blythe, Díaz thought ruefully—that could be real trouble. But even more trouble could develop with President Maravilloso’s request to meet with Ernesto Fuerza. Hopefully it was just an idle demand, soon to be forgotten once the political dangers became clear…

…but with Carmen Maravilloso, anything could happen. He had to be ready to make Fuerza available to meet the president soon. It was a meeting he was certainly not looking forward to making happen.