Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 11

HENDERSON, NEVADA

A FEW MORNINGS LATER

“Welcome back. I’m Bob O’Rourke, back behind the platinum microphone, here in the Bottom Line studios in east Sin City in the greatest state in the great United States of America, Nevada,” he began. “It has been one harrowing encounter after another since I was last on the air, not to mention all of the calamities that have occurred in that same time span, and I’ll bring all my loyal listeners up to speed:

“First of all, let me talk about the incident here at the studio a couple days ago. It is true: during the melee that ensued after I tried to go from my truck to the studio, caused solely by the illegal trespassing rioters and their irresponsible organizers, I pulled out my legal, licensed concealed weapon and fired it straight up into the air. No one was hurt by my action, a fact I am extremely proud of. I must tell you that my concealed weapons permit instructors tell us in the strictest terms never to fire a warning shot: they say never pull your weapon unless you intend to use it, but if you do pull it, use it, or you may lose it. I violated that instruction. This time, the shots scared the rioters enough to allow me to get away, and even encouraged the dangerous crowd to disperse, so more violence and injury was thankfully averted.

“It is also true that I was dog-piled, handcuffed, had a couple fingers broken, arrested, and held in custody by the Clark County Sheriff’s Department for most of that day. But as you can tell, I am today a free man. The District Attorney has said he is not sure if he intends to charge me with a misdemeanor for carrying a concealed weapon in a ‘cocked and locked’ condition, which is not permitted in Clark County. I cannot comment on that. The only thing I will say is I’m glad no one was hurt by my actions, I am thankful for the assistance and bravery of the Clark County Sheriff’s deputies who were on duty that morning, despite what they’ve done to my hand, and I will vigorously defend my rights under the Second Amendment to the Constitution and Nevada law if the District Attorney insists on pressing charges.

“But now let’s talk about the real issue of the day—the real meaning of the sudden upsurge in violence against America by the illegal immigrant community:

“The violence and chaos in the illegal immigrant population and border security realm is growing by the day. Two days ago, as you well know by now, nine Americans and three Mexicans were killed, thirty were injured, and the American embassy in Mexico City was severely damaged by an explosives-laden bus. The bus had been carrying members of the Federal District Police, who were there to escort the U.S. ambassador to Mexico, Leon Poindexter, to a meeting with Mexican president Carmen Maravilloso and Minister of Foreign Affairs Hector Sotelo in the Presidential Palace.

“This proves without a doubt, my friends, one of two things: either the Mexican government is directly responsible for these attacks, or the Mexican government is unable or unwilling to stop these murderous attacks, which are probably being carried out by followers of the terrorist Comandante Veracruz. It is imperative that the U.S. embassy and all U.S. consulate offices in Mexico be closed immediately and our representatives returned to Washington before there are any more terrorist activities targeting Americans. I encourage all Americans living and working in Mexico to get out as soon as you can as well.

“The morning’s news alerts have been focusing on another horrific crime that occurred in southern California earlier that morning, this time perpetrated by none other than the Mexican Army—yes, you heard me, the Mexican Army,” O’Rourke went on. “Two infantry squads, about fifty men, of Mexican Army regulars and paramilitary border security soldiers attacked an encampment of the American Watchdog Project, which was set up several miles east of the U.S. military border security base near Boulevard, California, called Rampart One. Five men were killed, including one medical doctor from the California Army National Guard. No, I take that back. Five American citizens were slaughtered by the Mexican Army, shot at close range with automatic weapons.

“As I’ve reported many times on this broadcast, the White House has sharply reduced the number of National Guard troops in this area recently in a vain attempt to lessen tensions between the United States and Mexico. The American Watchdog Project, who as you know lost their leader Herman Geitz recently to an unknown assassin while your humble correspondent was on patrol with his team, had set up a camp between Rampart One and the western edge of the Calexico border fence to watch out for illegal immigrants crossing the border here to make up for the loss of National Guard troops deployed there.

“It is true that the Watchdogs had taken a number of illegals into custody, including a pregnant woman. The Mexican government says the attack was in response to this illegal arrest; they say that they had eyewitness evidence that the Mexicans in captivity were being tortured and sexually abused, and they point to the recent disputed incident with the National Guard troops as further evidence of increased violence against migrants. The Mexican government says it did not order the Mexican troops to initiate the attack, but the local commander took it on his own authority to organize and conduct the raid.

“But in all the squawking from the Mexican government and the Hispanic human rights groups about the Watchdogs, complaining that the United States is unlawfully committing acts of atrocity against Mexicans, here’s something you haven’t heard on the news yet about this incident. I spoke with the Imperial County sheriff this morning, and he confirms that the American Watchdog Project members had intercepted a group of illegals crossing the border a few miles west of the Calexico fence. When I asked why they had intercepted the group instead of calling in the National Guard or Border Patrol, as they always do, the sheriff explained that the pregnant woman they had found was in the later stages of labor and was ready to deliver a child. The sheriff’s department had been notified, and a doctor, Army National Guard Captain William Abrams, had been summoned to the scene by the Watchdogs to help deliver the infant. In fact, I have in my possession the recordings from the Imperial County 911 Emergency Call Center and the recordings from the police radio transmissions, giving precise descriptions of the woman and her medical condition, her identity, and the identities of several of the men traveling with her, and I’ll play those recordings for you at the top of the hour, so stayed tuned.

“Bottom line, my friends: the Watchdogs were trying to help this woman, not hurt her. The woman was assisted across the border obviously so she could have her baby born on U.S. soil, which is a very common practice as illegals attempt to circumvent the law and take advantage of our Constitution. But the Mexican Army staged a so-called ‘rescue mission’ and ended up killing five Americans in cold blood. The woman and her child are missing; there has been no word from the Mexican Army or the Mexican government except to condemn the Watchdogs for their actions.

“This falls precisely in line with the highly suspect episode recently where a California National Guard soldier stands accused of raping a female illegal immigrant. Even though the woman’s story about how she came to be in that area and if she was traveling alone or with others has been totally inconsistent and unsupported by any evidence, it is the American government that is being vilified around the world, even before any facts are in. It is frighteningly obvious to me, my friends, that the Mexican government is fabricating these lies in order to incite the Hispanic community to violence against America on both sides of the border, turn world opinion in its favor, and provoke outright war with the United States.

“Yes, folks, I said ‘war,’ and I am not exaggerating here. Prussian General Carl von Clausewitz said in the early nineteenth century that ‘War is the continuation of policy by other means,’ and that is exactly what is happening here today. The Mexican government knows it has absolutely no hope of influencing Congress, the White House, or the American people that illegal immigration is good and should be encouraged, expanded, or at least tolerated, so they have decided to switch tactics and attempt to force America’s lawmakers and policy makers to drive the debate back to the fore by committing acts of devastation, mayhem, and murder against us. This is nothing short of state-sponsored terrorism, my friends, the scourge we have been fighting since the first U.S. airliner was hijacked in 1961, and last year actually declared war against.

“So if this is war being waged against the United States, where is our defense? Where is the vaunted but horrendously expensive Task Force TALON, the high-tech combined FBI and military unit charged with hunting down terrorists wherever they may be found anywhere in the world? We’ve sent TALON to Brazil, Russia, Great Britain, Egypt, and even right here in America—but where are they now?

“Unsubstantiated reports are that one of TALON’s robots had actually been hijacked and used to terrorize the area around Amarillo, Texas just a couple days ago. The government is not commenting at all, but there was some sort of security breach at Amarillo International Airport and possibly another at a government facility I will not mention here because of national security. But all I see is confusion, a lack of leadership, and chaos happening here, folks. It is all very disturbing—very, very disturbing indeed.”

O’Rourke withdrew a slim folder of e-mails, photocopied forms, and notes. He paused for a moment, as if perhaps reconsidering his next move; then, popping more chocolate-covered espresso beans in his mouth, went on: “Let me give you an example of how really screwed up the government’s immigration and border security programs are, ladies and gentlemen. Yesterday my staff received an anonymous e-mail from an individual that was so outrageous, but so factual-sounding, that we thought we’d investigate. Normally I wouldn’t waste my time or my staff’s with such nonsense, but this anonymous message actually had relevant and believable evidence attached to it. It turns out it was not so outrageous, my friends.

“I’m sure you recall the deputy commander of Task Force TALON, Dr. Ariadna Vega, the young woman who helped design and build the incredible manned military robots involved in the hunt for terrorist mastermind Colonel Yegor Zakharov and also involved in setting up the first military security bases along the border. Prompted by this anonymous correspondent, we checked on Dr. Vega’s background, and we have reason to believe that she and her parents are here in the United States illegally. Yes, folks, illegally. Dr. Vega’s father attended the University of Southern California on an educational visa, where he obtained a doctorate degree, but he never left the country when his visa expired. Instead, he apparently sent for his family back in Ensenada, Mexico, where they were smuggled across the border sometime in the mid-1980s.

“But that was not the worst part, my friends, not by a long shot. Now although the Vegas were productive and apparently law-abiding visitors to the United States, they were still here illegally. Miss Ariadna Vega attended USC and several other American universities, obtaining her doctorate degree in engineering, like her father. She was then hired by the U.S. Army Research Laboratory as a computer and electrical engineer, eventually joining the Infantry Transformational BattleLab, one of the government’s most highly classified offices, working on very advanced weapons for future infantry combat soldiers.

“But how, you might ask, does an illegal immigrant get a top-secret security clearance and become the number-two person in a major border security unit? The answer: she falsified her documentation, folks. She took great pains to cover her tracks, all the way from junior high school through college and university. Of course, the state of California does not keep very good records of the citizenship status of its students, arguing that it’s a violation of their constitutional rights and California law, so the government investigators charged with checking background information obviously ran into plenty of stone walls and dead ends when they looked into her past. But those were stone walls partially erected by Miss Vega and her family.

“We have obtained copies of Miss Vega’s Mexican and American birth records through third-hand sources, but have not been able to validate either set of documents’ authenticity, so we have no direct evidence as of yet. Of course, the U.S. Army will not turn over any fingerprint records to us so we can verify this information. But a professional’s examination of the footprints on both sets of birth records conclude that they appear to be identical. The baby’s footprints of course could be faked. But the compounding of circumstantial evidence tells us here at The Bottom Line that Dr. Ariadna Vega, deputy commander of Task Force TALON, is indeed an illegal alien—and, it appears, has violated several federal laws in order to obtain a highly classified government position that is normally not open to foreign nationals because of trust, loyalty, and security concerns.

“Now I’m not saying that Miss Vega is a dangerous spy out to destroy America. There is no question that she is a hero after her actions in hunting down and defeating the Consortium terrorist group that attacked America last year. In my opinion, she doesn’t deserve prison time. The question is, however: does she deserve to still have access to classified government programs and still be in charge of our nation’s border security? I don’t think so. And it begs the wider question: does her immigration and citizenship status have anything to do with TALON’s ineffectiveness in securing our borders? The Bottom Line wants to know, and we will find out, I promise you.”

PECOS EAST TRAINING RANGE,

CANNON AIR FORCE BASE, NEW MEXICO

THAT SAME TIME

It was called a “30-30”—dropping a lightly armed and equipped commando from thirty feet in the air into the water, from a helicopter traveling thirty nautical miles per hour. The tactic allowed the fastest possible forward flight through hostile airspace without injuring the nonparachute-equipped landing soldiers.

But this “30-30” was different. First, the commandos weren’t dropping from a helicopter, but a different type of rotorcraft: a CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, the special operations version of the world’s first active military tilt-rotor transport. Able to take off and land similar to a helicopter but then fly at fixed-wing turboprop speeds, the V-22-series aircraft were the newest aircraft in the active U.S. military arsenal, pressed into service for utility, transport, cargo, and search and rescue as well as inserting special ops forces well behind enemy lines. All V-22 aircraft were equipped with forward-looking infrared scanners and inflight refueling probes; the special operations version was also equipped with a highly precise satellite navigation suite, terrain-avoidance radar and millimeter-wave obstacle detection radar, state-of-the-art electronic countermeasures systems, a twenty-millimeter Chain Gun in a chin turret steered by the pilot or copilot using head-mounted remote aiming displays, and long-range fuel tanks.

The second difference with this “30-30” was that it was not over water, but over the hard sun-baked high desert of east-central New Mexico. The third difference: the soldiers involved were not ordinary commandos, but Cybernetic Infantry Devices from Task Force TALON.

Using a steel handrail on the upper fuselage as a handhold, Major Jason Richter stepped aft along the CV-22’s cargo bay toward the open cargo ramp. “CID One is in position,” he radioed.

“You sure you want to do this, Major?” FBI Deputy Director Bruno Watts, the new commander of Task Force TALON, asked. He was secured in the front of the cargo bay of the CV-22, watching the exercise. “You won’t impress me at all if you break your fool neck.”

“Thirty seconds,” the copilot radioed back, and the red “READY” light came on in the cargo bay.

“I already told you a dozen times, Watts—I’m doing it.”

“You sure you feel up to it?”

“The doc cleared me…”

“You did one blood test and a bone marrow test, then went back to the base and started putting on a CID unit. You don’t look good, and you’re not acting very right in the head.”

“Get out of my face, Watts.”

Bruno Watts grasped Jason’s CID unit by the base of the helmet. “I’m telling you, Richter, you’re not ready to go back into the field yet. I’m grounding you as of right now.”

“Who’s going to run this drop test, Bruno—you?” Jason responded. “You haven’t even made it through one briefing on CID. So unless you want to climb inside this unit, get the hell out of my face.” He turned and faced the open cargo door again.

Watts scowled at the robot’s back, unaccustomed to subordinates he hardly knew calling him by his first name. But that appeared typical of Richter and others in this task force: they had been doing their own thing for so long that they had absolutely no regard for rank or common organizational structure. “The job of the commander is to command, Richter. You think you’re being a leader by skipping out of the hospital and doing this training mission, but all I see is a guy with a chip on his shoulder, out for some payback.”

“You sound like Kelsey…I mean, Director DeLaine,” Jason remarked. “Why do all of you FBI agents sound alike?”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, Major?” Watts said.

“Ten seconds. Stand by.”

Jason turned around and gave a thumbs-up to the two other CID units standing behind him, piloted by Harry Dodd of the U.S. Army and Mike Tesch, formerly of the Drug Enforcement Agency. He then stepped back to the edge of the cargo ramp at the rear of the CV-22 and turned around so he was facing forward, still holding on to the overhead handrail. Tesch and Dodd waited closely in front of him. When he saw the red light in the cargo bay turn to green, he stepped back and off the ramp.

The idea was to land on his feet, absorb the shock of the drop, and simply continue running, but like most plans his didn’t survive impact. He landed squarely on his feet in a running stance, but immediately face-planted forward and ended up cartwheeling across the desert for almost a hundred feet before crashing into a cactus. Mike Tesch’s landing wasn’t much better. His plan was to land on his butt, cushioning his impact with his arms, and let his momentum carry him up to his feet. But as soon as he hit he bounced several feet in the air, and he landed headfirst on the ground.

Harry Dodd’s landing was almost perfect, but only because he didn’t try to run right out of the landing. Instead, he performed a picture-perfect parachute landing fall, hitting the ground with the balls of his feet, twisting to the right, letting his left calf, thigh, lat muscles, and shoulder take the brunt of the impact in a smooth rolling action, then letting his legs flip up and over his body until they were pointing down along the flight path. When his feet reached the ground, he simply let his momentum lift his entire body up and off the ground, and he was instantly on his feet and running. By the time the dust and sand settled, he had run back and was checking on Tesch and Richter. “You okay, sir?” he asked Richter who had just picked himself up off the ground.

“Almost had it there until that stupid cactus got in my way,” Jason complained. “Where’d you learn to do that roll? It looks like you hardly got dusty.”

“Army Airborne school, Fort Benning, Georgia, sir,” Dodd said. “Looks like I’ll be teaching TALON how to do a correct PLF.”

“Buster, this is Stronghold, looks like everyone is still in the green,” Ariadna Vega radioed from TALON headquarters after checking CID unit’s satellite datalink status readouts. She was able to see each unit’s landing via optical target scoring cameras located throughout the Pecos East range and had to force her voice back to normal after laughing so hard at Richter’s and Tesch’s attempts. “Proceed to maneuver positions.”

Following computerized navigation prompts visible on their electronic visors, the three CID units split up and proceeded to preplanned locations, about a mile from a large plywood building erected on the Pecos East range. Once they were all in position, Jason launched a GUOS, or grenade-launched unmanned observation system, drone from his backpack launcher. The bowling-pin-sized device unfolded its wings and started a small turbojet engine seconds after launch, and the little drone whizzed away with a low, rasping noise and just a hint of smoke.

“Good downlink back here,” Ariadna reported as she watched the streamed digital images being broadcast via satellite from the tiny drones. “Report in if you’re bent.” The sensor on the GUOS drone was not a visual camera, but a millimeter-wave radar designed to detect metal, even tiny bits of it buried as far as twelve inches underground. On their electronic visors, metallic objects big enough to pose a threat to the CID units appeared as blinking blue dots against the combined visual and digital imagery.

“I’ve got a good downlink,” Jason said. The terrain up ahead was littered with blue dots—in this case, sensors and booby traps planted by the “defenders.” Judging by the pattern, the objects appeared to be put in place randomly, as if seeded by aircraft. “Numerous surface devices up ahead, guys.”

“I must be bent, One—Three’s got nothing,” Tesch radioed.

“Okay, Three, hang back as briefed and wait for the signal.”

“Roger.”

“One, this is Two, I can circumnavigate the cluster in front of me,” Harry Dodd reported after studying his visor display. “I need to move a little more in your direction. On the way. Cover me.”

Immediately when Dodd said that, the warning bells in Jason’s head went off. “Negative, Two, hold your pos…”

And at that exact moment, Jason’s threat warning system blared. The GUOS drone had picked up the presence of a large vehicle not previously detected from farther away. “Heads-up, guys, we’ve got company up ahead.”

The disguising job was a work of art, Jason had to admit. The Air Force special operations guys had flown in a Humvee loaded with TOW antitank missiles, covered it with a heat-absorbing blanket to shield it from infrared sensors, and then expertly camouflaged the whole area so from the air it appeared to be nothing more than a slight rise in the desert floor. If they had only used infrared sensors on this approach instead of the millimeter-wave radar scanners, they might have never detected the Humvee until it was too late.

Jason and the two other CID units made short work of their target. They fired volleys of smoke canisters at it with their backpack launchers, simulating grenade attacks, then assaulted the plywood “headquarters building” from different directions. Within minutes, the operation was a success.

Not expecting to be called back so soon for an extraction, the CV-22 Osprey was still on the ground at Cannon Air Force Base refueling, so the CID units had a few minutes to wait. While they waited, the three TALON commandos recalled the GUOS drones back to their garrison area before their fuel ran out, and discussed their techniques on this practice operation. Ten minutes later the Osprey was back, and the CID units could practice their exfiltration technique—a recent modification to the old Fulton Recovery System used for decades by Air Force special operations teams to retrieve men and equipment on the ground without landing.

Dangling from the back of the CV-22’s open cargo bay were three “trapezes”—carbon composite rods about five feet long, suspended from composite cables, resembling circus high-wire trapezes. As the Osprey flew overhead, each CID unit raised his arms and, positioning himself perfectly, hooked his arms onto the trapeze bar as it passed overhead. As the first CID unit was pulled up, the second and third CIDs were retrieved in the same manner. Within minutes, all three CID units were reeled inside the Osprey’s cargo bay.

“That was a blast!” Harry Dodd exclaimed. “I thought that damned bar was going to slice my head off, but hooking your arms on it like you said worked perfectly!”

“It might work better if the bar snagged us on our chests instead of our arms and hands,” Jason surmised. “We just need to lower the bar down a couple feet. Make a note of that, will you, Ari?” No response. “Stronghold, this is One. How copy?” Still no response. “TALON, this is One. How copy?”

“Loud and clear, One,” Bruno Watts responded. He had dismounted from the CV-22 as it was being refueled on the ramp at Cannon Air Force Base and was now driving back to the task force’s headquarters east of the base. “Let me try to raise Stronghold. Break. Stronghold, this is TALON.”

“TALON, this is Delta,” U.S. Marine Corps First Lieutenant Jennifer McCracken, TALON’s deputy commander for operations, responded. “I’m here at the mobile ops center. The place is empty. I was listening in on the exercise and came out here when I didn’t hear Charlie reply.”

“Find her, Delta,” Watts ordered. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“We’ll be there in ten,” Jason said.

Jennifer was waiting for them out on the short airstrip outside TALON’s headquarters buildings when the CV-22 touched down a short time later. “She took a CID unit, a grenade launcher backpack, two pilots, and the C-21, sir,” she said as soon as Jason stepped off the cargo ramp. The C-21, the military version of the Learjet 20 bizjet, was Task Force TALON’s rapid airlift aircraft. McCracken handed Richter a note. “Here’s the message she left with the crew chief.”

Jason read the note. “Jennifer, find out what airlift we have available the quickest for three CID units and get it out to Cannon. We’re taking these three CID units airborne. Load up weapon backpacks. Go.” She hurried off, her secure cell phone already in her hands. Jason had his own phone open seconds later. “Sergeant Major, I’ve got a situation…”

“I just heard it myself, Jason. Jesus, I’m sorry. No one here got any heads-up at all from him at all.”

“What in hell is going on, Sergeant Major? Heads-up from whom?”

“Bob O’Rourke,” Jefferson said. “Apparently the guy ‘outed’ Ariadna as an illegal alien on his radio show less than an hour ago.”

“He did what?” Jason exploded. “An illegal alien? That’s crazy! I’ve known her for years! She has a top-secret clearance, same as mine…”

“We don’t have any hard facts yet, Major, but O’Rourke says he has documentation, including a Mexican birth certificate and apparently falsified American birth records. We’re checking with Los Angeles County and the State Department to get her records from Mexico, but I need Ariadna secure before the press descends on her. I suggest you confine her to quarters before ICE or the FBI…”

“She grabbed a jet and a CID unit and headed to southern California,” Jason said.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jefferson exclaimed. “Where is she headed?”

“Northridge, Thousand Oaks…southern California, somewhere,” Jason said. “Her dad’s a college professor; her mother works with him, I think. I’ll have to check the records.” He paused for a moment, then interjected, “If Zakharov is still alive and still in southern California, he may try to kidnap the parents to get to Ariadna. I’m on my way…”

“I’ll get the Los Angeles FBI office over there right away and bring in her parents. They may need to bring their Hostage Rescue Team. Send me whatever docs you have on her and her family.”

“What do you mean, docs on ‘her?’” Jason asked. “Why do you need docs on Ari? You have everything you need on her.”

“Apparently not.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Sergeant Major!” Jason exploded. “Don’t even think about making Ari a target just because of what that flakeoid O’Rourke has to say!”

“Sir, the White House has already called for an investigation,” Jefferson said. “The FBI and Army Criminal Investigation Command have already been directed to bring Ari in and do a complete background…”

“She is not going to be arrested, Sergeant Major—I guarantee that!” Jason cried. “I’ll bust the head of any federal agent who tries to lay a hand on her! She’s a hero, for God’s sake! She’s been injured and almost killed in the line of duty!”

“Jason, the best place for her is with the FBI. Director DeLaine knows her—I’m sure she’ll handle her case personally.”

“No way! She’s not a criminal! Tell the FBI to back off, Sergeant Major!”

“I’m not going to do that, sir,” Jefferson said. “If she broke the law, she has to come in. The longer she stays out, the more she’ll be suspected of being a spy. She’ll have to—”

“A spy?” Jason retorted. “Are you insane? No way in hell is she going to go down as a spy! I’ll kill anyone who tries to charge her with that, I swear to God…!”

“Major Richter, shut up, sir, now,” Ray Jefferson said. “Listen to me, sir: Dr. Vega will get all the protection and legal help we can offer her…but not if you or she tries something crazy. Get her back on base and keep her there.”

“Sergeant Major, under my authority as deputy commander of this unit—”

“You’ve been relieved as deputy commander of TALON, Major. Director Watts is in charge—”

“—I am directing elements of Task Force TALON to immediately deploy to southern California to set up surveillance on Dr. Vega’s family, who I believe will be the target of an assassination or kidnapping attempt by the Consortium,” Jason said. “I am requesting that you notify the FBI and Justice Department of my orders and have them contact me through my headquarters so we can coordinate our efforts, but you can advise them that I am fully prepared to take whatever steps I feel necessary to accomplish my mission. Unless I receive valid countermanding orders, my unit is in target pursuit mode. TALON out.”

Jason saw a truck pull up to the CV-22 Osprey, and crews started loading Cybernetic Infantry Unit backpacks and weapon canisters aboard the tilt-rotor aircraft. At the same time an Air Force Suburban roared up the taxiway and screeched to a halt in front of him, and Bruno Watts jumped out. “I just got a call from the National Security Adviser, ordering me to keep you on the ground!” he shouted over the roar of the Osprey’s massive turboshaft engines. “What is going on? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“I’ll submit my ops plan in the air,” Jason shouted back.

“Like hell you will, Major!” Watts snapped. “This equipment is not your personal property! I am in command of this unit! Until I get clearance from Washington, I’m ordering you…”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jennifer McCracken said, stepping up to Watts. “I’d like a word with you.”

“Not now, Lieutenant.” Then, with surprising speed, Watts grabbed Jason’s left wrist with his left hand and lifted his sleeve with his other hand, revealing the remote control wrist keypad for the CID units. “And don’t even think of trying to summon one of your robots to grab me, Major,” he growled. “Sergeant Major Jefferson warned me about you. He said you’re not above doing anything to get your…”

With equally surprising speed, Jennifer McCracken swatted away Watts’s grasp on Jason, twisted his arm upward and backward, rotated her hips, and flipped Watts back over her right leg and down onto the tarmac. With one leg on his left arm and his other arm twisted behind him in a come-along hold, Watts was immediately immobilized. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Watts shouted. “Let me up, McCracken, now!”

“Sir?”

“Hold him there until we’re airborne, Jennifer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you two crazy?” Watts retorted. He tried to struggle free, but it was quickly and painfully obvious that the somewhat nerdy, quiet, and very businesslike young Marine knew exactly what she was doing. “I’ll have you all court-martialed!”

“You’re messing with a member of Task Force TALON, sir,” McCracken said. “You can court-martial us after Dr. Vega has been brought to safety.”

HENDERSON, NEVADA

A SHORT TIME LATER

“We suffered almost a half-million dollars’ worth of damage that our insurance probably won’t cover,” the station manager moaned, checking reports filed by the police and the insurance adjusters. “The ambulance company sent us a bill for transport of seventeen persons to the hospital for a variety of injuries; and every one of our Latino maintenance workers have left.”

“But the show had the highest ratings in the history of talk radio,” Bob O’Rourke’s agent chimed in immediately, “and all but a couple of our sponsors have asked for multiyear advertising contract extensions. I’m expecting a call from the syndication folks, asking for the same—they might even be interested in doing a TV show. Congratulations, Bob.”

“Thanks, Ken, thanks very much for the news,” Bob O’Rourke said, ignoring the station manager. As he usually did after a show, Bob O’Rourke relaxed in his office with his producer, Fand Kent, and the show’s other staff members; he would have one beer, discuss upcoming topics and research assignments, and then O’Rourke would move on to the half-dozen other promotional functions he had scheduled most afternoons, usually golf games with sponsors, speaking engagements, personal appearances, or commercial tapings. He clinked glasses and bottles with his staff, took a deep pull on his beer, then looked at his heavily bandaged right hand. “If I had known just a few broken fingers would get me all that, I would’ve done it long ago.” The laughter was a little strained, but no one in that room ever failed to laugh at one of Bob O’Rourke’s jokes, no matter how lame or unfunny—they all valued their jobs too much.

“Bob, the district attorney, the FCC, the mayor, the sheriff’s department, the state Department of Public Safety, the FBI, and even the White House are screaming mad at you,” the station manager said. “They want to talk with you right away, especially about this Vega thing.”

“I have nothing to say to any of them except I stand by my information and will refuse all requests to reveal my sources,” O’Rourke said.

“That’s all you need to say, Bob—I’ll get your attorney on those calls right away,” the agent said. “Don’t worry about a thing. All those people don’t do a damned thing whenever some nut job like Comandante Veracruz wants to speak, but when a proud American wants to talk, they all want to squash him like a bug.” O’Rourke tipped his bottle in thanks. “I’ve got a car waiting outside to take you to the CNN affiliate, and then we’ll come back here for a few more satellite pieces with Fox News and the BBC. Then…”

“Can’t. I have that match with Jason Gore at two at the country club.”

“Jason said he’d be glad to slip it to tomorrow if you’ll autograph a bunch of visors for him.”

“Deal.” He looked worriedly at his agent. “About the car…”

“Don’t worry about your Excursion. The insurance company will total it, I’m sure, and I’ve already put out feelers to a few charities to auction it off on eBay.”

O’Rourke gave his agent a shake of his head, and he bent down closer so he could whisper, “No, Ken, I mean the car for this afternoon.”

“No worries, Bob. I found a company with armored limos. They’re comping the car for the week as long as they can put their signage in the back window and at the parking areas at your events. All your sponsors and venues said no problem.”

“An armored car, you say?”

“This company has a fleet of armored Suburbans that were rejected by a very wealthy real estate developer from Bahrain because they were too heavy—they wouldn’t fit on their jets,” the agent explained. “These things are like friggin’ tanks, Bob. It’s a good deal.”

“I like my regular service…”

“They don’t have armored limos, Bob, and besides they hesitated to help you after yesterday’s broadcast. Frankly, Bob, they ran like frightened chickens. Screw ’em.”

“But is this a good company…you know, are they trustworthy?”

“Don’t worry about a thing. I checked ’em out. They’re new, but I spoke with the owner and he seems okay. Young, a real go-getter, anxious to make a name for himself.” He read O’Rourke’s eyes and added, “And yes, he’s an Anglo, and all his drivers are Anglos. I said don’t worry. I have a bodyguard assigned to you, recommended by one of your sponsors, and I’ll be along every step of the way to keep an eye on things.” O’Rourke looked worried but said nothing as he reached for another beer.

More TV and media crews were outside the studios when Bob O’Rourke emerged about a half hour later after his staff meeting. The bodyguard took up a position on the other side of the car, facing the crowds being kept away by a greatly expanded police presence. O’Rourke made a few comments for the reporters, waved to the crowd with his left hand, raised his bandaged right hand defiantly to the delighted cheers of his supporters who easily drowned out the protesters on the other side of the street, and entered the massive armored Suburban limousine, making a pleased mental note of the inch-thick steel and Kevlar in the armored doors and three-inch-thick bulletproof glass.

His agent was already inside. “I told you, Bob—first class all the way,” he said, checking out the very high-tech electronics and devices inside. “This is probably what the President’s limo looks like.” He handed O’Rourke the remote to the twenty-four-inch plasma TV inside. “Here—you might be able to catch the news piece on yourself.”

O’Rourke took the remote and turned the TV on. “Get me another beer, will you?”

“Better take it easy, Bob—you have a full afternoon.”

“Just get me another beer and shut up, will you?”

The agent shook his head, silently determined that this would be the last one until dinnertime. He opened the ice cabinet section of the limo…and his mouth dropped open in absolute horror.

At the same time, the bodyguard had got into the front passenger seat, and the limo driver trotted around from holding O’Rourke’s door open to get in the driver’s side…but instead of getting in, he dashed off down the driveway, past the media crews, and disappeared into the crowds on the street.

“Get out! Get out!” the bodyguard’s muffled voice shouted through the closed blast-proof privacy window. “Get out of the car, now!”

“What the hell…?” The agent’s eyes widened in surprise, then fear, then abject panic. “Holy shit, this thing’s full of…!”

O’Rourke tried the door handle. “The door’s locked!” He tried the other handle. “This one’s…”

At that instant, the one hundred pounds of C4 explosives planted in the liquor and ice cabinets inside the SUV exploded. The armored body and windows of the SUV contained the explosion for a fraction of a second until, like an overfilled balloon, the powerful explosives first blew the windows out, then ripped the rest of the vehicle into a thousand pieces. Huge tongues of fire leaped out horizontally through the limo’s shattered windows, and then the area for an entire block was showered with flying shards of metal, a wave of fire, and a tremendous concussion, knocking over every person, vehicle, and any other standing object within one hundred yards and shattering every window for another hundred yards.

CALIFORNIA STATE UNIVERSITY,

NORTHRIDGE, CALIFORNIA

A SHORT TIME LATER

The white panel truck exited northbound Highway 101 at Reseda Boulevard and headed north, not speeding but zipping through many stoplights that had just turned red. It turned right on Vincennes Street, past Darby Avenue and onto the California State University–Northridge campus. West University Drive dead-ended at Jacaranda Walk, but the truck squeezed through a narrow brick campus entryway and continued eastbound onto the wide tree-lined sidewalk down two blocks until reaching Jacaranda Hall Engineering Building, the driver beeping its horn occasionally to warn students.

The scene on and off campus was one of absolute confusion. There were several antimilitary, antiadministration, and anti-immigrant protest groups up and down West University Drive. The streets were littered with garbage, discarded signs and banners, and projectiles. The acidy smell of tear gas could barely be detected, wafting in from many directions. Long lines of Hispanic men, women, and children were walking down both sides of the street in both directions, with cars following them, honking horns at them, or simply unable to move because of the chaos. Media crews were everywhere, adding to the confusion.

Cal State–Northridge’s campus security was already out in force trying to keep most of the protesters and displaced Mexicans from swarming onto the campus, but they focused their attention squarely on the white panel truck as it drove up over the curb and onto the sidewalk on campus. The situation stopped being serious and had suddenly gotten potentially deadly.

The truck took a left onto East University Drive, then an immediate left into the handicapped parking area outside Jacaranda Hall. Just as campus security patrols arrived, they saw the driver get out of the truck’s cab and step inside the back of the truck. Three patrol cars, lights flashing, blocked the truck. “Driver of the white panel truck,” one of the officers said, using the loudspeaker on his patrol car, “this is the campus police. Come out of the vehicle immediately.” There was no response from the vehicle, even after several repeated calls both in English and Spanish.

After the duty sergeant arrived and assessed the situation with his officers, it was quickly decided to evacuate Jacaranda, Sequoia, Sagebrush, and Redwood Halls and Oviatt Library, and call in the Highway Patrol and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. The recent bombings in Las Vegas and Mexico City, plus the considerable unrest among the Hispanic population all across California, put everyone on hair-trigger alert.

Within ten minutes the sheriff’s department’s bomb squad arrived, and ten minutes after that a remote-controlled tracked robot was dispatched, carrying a bag with a cellular phone inside, plus microphones that could be attached to the outside of the truck with remote manipulator arms to listen to what was happening inside. By that time the buildings surrounding the truck had been evacuated and a one-hundred-yard perimeter established. The robot motored to the closed and locked double cargo doors in the back of the truck, just far enough away for one door to be opened.

A loudspeaker on the bomb squad’s robot crackled to life: “Attention, any persons inside the truck. This is Sergeant Louis Cortez of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. We would like to speak with whoever is inside. We will not harm you. A remote-controlled unarmed robot is behind the truck. It is carrying a bag containing a telephone. You may open the right-side cargo door, reach out, and take the bag containing the phone. We assure you, we will not trick you. The bag contains only a phone, and we will not attempt to arrest or attack you. We wish to speak with whoever is in charge. Please take the phone.”

The deputy began repeating the message in Spanish when those outside the truck could see the right cargo door handle move, and moments later open. The robot was positioned perfectly—all the person inside had to do was open the door less than six inches, reach out less than half an arm’s length, and grab the…

Suddenly both cargo doors burst apart and completely flew off their hinges when some sort of tremendous burst of energy erupted from inside the truck. The police instinctively ducked down behind vehicles and barricades, expecting the shock wave of a huge bomb blast to crash into them—but there was nothing. When they looked up, all they saw…

…was a large ten-foot-tall two-legged cyborg that had just jumped from the back of the truck. As the astonished police officers watched, Ariadna Vega, piloting the Cybernetic Infantry Device, dashed around the truck and into the main entrance of Jacaranda Hall—she was out of sight even before most of them realized what they had just seen.

The entryway and hallways inside the building were empty—Ariadna was able to monitor the campus police radio frequencies from on board the CID unit, so she knew that everyone had been evacuated. Running on all fours—the approved CID technique for assaulting a building, learned the hard way from Task Force TALON’s assault into an oil refinery office building in Cairo—she headed upstairs to the third floor of the engineering building. She briefly considered how she would do her final approach to the target, but quickly decided there was only one way to do it

Staying low so she wouldn’t hit the ceiling, running on all fours, she galloped around a corner, down a hallway…and crashed directly through the door at the end of the hall. It took her just two heartbeats to see that the outer office was empty, so she turned and bulldozed herself directly through another door to her left, then immediately rose up on her left knee, turned toward the windows, raised her mechanical arms in order to grab anyone within reach, and deployed the twenty-millimeter cannon in her backpack, all in one smooth motion. She heard a woman and a man scream, and the lights flickered. “Freeze!” she shouted. “No one move!”

She then heard the sound of clapping. Ari turned and saw none other than Colonel Yegor Zakharov himself, seated on her father’s comfortable armchair at the head of an informal meeting area in front of her father’s desk, applauding her entrance! The coffee table in front of him had a tray with coffee cups and saucers on it—the ones she had given to her father when he became the chairman of the school of engineering at Northridge!—and even a plate of cookies. She aimed her cannon directly at Zakharov’s smirking face and…

“No le mate, niño,” Ariadna’s mother Ernestina said. Ariadna looked up in complete surprise and saw her father seated behind his desk in the corner behind Zakharov, with her mother right beside him. They were clutching each other, but in surprise, not fear. “Is that you, Ariadna?”

Ariadna immediately reached out, and in the blink of an eye had Zakharov by the throat, holding him up high enough so his toes just barely touched the carpet. “¿Es usted el daño dos?” she asked.

“We are fine, dear,” Ernestina said. “Yegor has been a complete gentleman.”

“Yegor…gentleman…?”

“Let him explain, Ari,” her father Dominic said. “You can make up your own mind, but we believe what he has told us.”

“You…believe…him?” Ariadna asked incredulously. “This man is an international terrorist and a mass murderer! He has masterminded the most deadly attacks in the entire world! What has he told you? Has he drugged you? Has he…?”

“He has not done anything except make an appointment to talk to us. He said…”

“He made an appointment?”

“Perhaps you should let the man breathe so he can tell you himself, Ari,” her father said with a hint of a smile on his face. “He looks like he is beginning to turn blue.”

“I should kill him just for coming near you!” Ari turned back to Zakharov who indeed was starting to look like he was in some distress—he gasped like a fish out of water for several moments after she finally lowered him to the floor and loosened, but did not release, her grip on his neck. “You came here to kill my mother and father, didn’t you, hijoputa?”

“Ariadna!” her mother admonished her. “Watch your language!” It was comical to watch the robot shake its head in disbelief.

“I came here…to give you…information,” Zakharov said, his voice strained and croaking as he caught his breath. “Kill me if you want, but hear me out. I may even be able to help you.”

“Your help? You want to help me?”

“I have been double-crossed, Dr. Vega, and I lack the resources to exact my revenge,” Zakharov said. “Listen to me for two minutes, and I will tell you who is behind this Mexican immigration madness.”

THE WHITE HOUSE,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

A SHORT TIME LATER

“I apologize for the confusion, Mr. President,” Felix Díaz said when he took the call from the President of the United States in the president of Mexico’s office. “I am somewhat at a loss to explain what has happened. All I know for certain is that President Maravilloso, the vice president, the Minister of Defense, and several other Council of Government ministers are missing or incommunicado. As fifth in line of presidential succession, I have temporarily assumed the role of president until a thorough investigation can be conducted.”

“Do you think this is related to the embassy bombing in the Federal District, Minister Díaz?” the President of the United States asked. “Is there a coup underway? Is all this being engineered by that right-wing fanatic Comandante Veracruz?”

“Again, sir, I do not have that information at this time,” Díaz said. “The situation here is confusing and fluid.”

“I want to know just one thing, Minister Díaz: are all these announcements and threats from this Comandante Veracruz guy sanctioned and endorsed by the Mexican government? I require only a simple yes or no answer.”

“I assure you, Mr. President, that this Comandante Veracruz character does not speak for Mexico,” Minister of Internal Affairs Felix Díaz replied. “However, Ernesto Fuerza is a private citizen of Mexico; he has not been charged with any crimes here in Mexico, and therefore has the constitutional freedom to move and speak wherever he chooses; and if the private media outlets in my country wish to give him airtime to voice his opinions, that is their decision.”

“Minister Díaz, his remarks are inflammatory, counterproductive, and obviously dangerous,” Conrad said. “Cities and counties all over the United States are complaining of traffic gridlock, acts of vandalism and violence, theft, assaults—all because of this man’s announcements. Since your Internal Affairs Ministry controls the communications outlets in your country, I want to know if his remarks are officially—”

“I have told you my government’s official position many times, Mr. President,” Díaz interrupted. “Mexico wishes to participate in formulating a just, fair, and equitable immigration and border security program with your government.”

“And that is?”

“Very simple, sir: all military forces on the U.S.-Mexico border must be removed; all Mexican citizens being held in detention facilities must be released immediately; an in-place guest worker program should be initiated immediately, with Mexican citizens wishing to work being allowed to register with their employers or directly through your Citizenship and Immigration Services bureau without requiring them to return to Mexico; all Mexican workers in the United States are to be guaranteed the federal or state minimum wage, whichever is higher; and all Mexican citizens living and working in the United States for more than two years should receive a Social Security identification card, not just a useless taxpayer ID number.”

“What you want is being debated in Congress as we speak, Minister.”

“It has been debated for far too long—and as it is being debated, our citizens are dying in your deserts, being cheated out of fair wages, being denied workers benefits, and are not allowed to even open a bank account or see a doctor in some areas,” Díaz said. “That must stop immediately, Mr. President. Otherwise I think our people should do exactly what Mr. Fuerza recommends: for their own safety, they should get out of the United States and not return until things change.”

“Minister Díaz, millions of your people will suffer if they just leave like this,” Conrad said. “Already thousands of innocent persons, mostly Mexicans, have been injured by assaults, traffic accidents, bombings, fighting, and looting. Several hundred have been killed. In the meantime they have no jobs, no income, and have only succeeded in creating chaos, fear, and confusion. Many of your people have been accused of hate crimes, racial attacks, sabotage, vandalism, and even murder. Is this what you want?”

“Mexico wants only justice, equality, and freedom, Mr. President,” Díaz said. “What happens in the streets of your city and in your halls of Congress is entirely up to you. I suggest you control the hatemongers and racists in your own country first, like Bob O’Rourke, before accusing the poor displaced persons from Mexico!”

“Bob O’Rourke was killed early this afternoon, Minister Díaz, by a powerful bomb planted in his car,” the President said. “I assumed you were aware of this.”

Díaz was silent for a long moment, then: “If you expected me to be sorry O’Rourke is dead, Mr. President, I will no doubt disappoint you,” he said in a quieter tone. “It matters not. He was not a spokesman for your government, anymore than Comandante Veracruz is of ours. Prod your Congress into passing some real immigration reform legislation, and sign it into law immediately, or the blood of many more innocent hardworking people will be on your hands.”

President Conrad was silent for a few moments, then: “I understand that things are difficult there now, Minister Díaz,” he said. “I called to ask if the United States can do anything to help. President Maravilloso gave her permission for us to send the FBI and military investigators to your country to—”

“I’m afraid that will be impossible now, Mr. President,” Díaz said. “As director of internal investigations in Mexico, I cannot spare the manpower to lend to American investigators while attempting to conduct our own investigation. The Council of Government, the legislature, and the people will not permit an American investigation to override our own.”

“You don’t understand, Minister,” the President said. “The El Centro incident occurred on U.S. soil, involving American military and civilian personnel. The U.S. embassy is considered American soil. You have treaty obligations that permit us to bring in our own investigators in cases such as this. I demand your government’s full—”

“Excuse me, sir?” Díaz interrupted, his voice fairly shaking with anger. “Did you just tell me that you ‘demand’ something? How dare you speak to me like this? You would never dare to tell even a pizza deliveryman in your country that you ‘demand’ something—I think you would be polite and ask instead. How dare you make demands of this government?”

“Sir, a horrible crime has been committed on our territory,” President Conrad said. “The FBI is our chief federal investigation organization. Because the incident involved a U.S. Marine Corps helicopter, the Department of Defense and the Navy are also going to be involved, along with other agencies. The aircraft that attacked near El Centro came from Mexico—you admitted as much yourself. Now I expect…no, Minister, I demand that your government cooperate with the FBI and the Navy Judge Advocate General’s investigation. You will also—”

“Mr. Conrad, Mexico has its own investigation to conduct,” Díaz retorted. “As I recall, no Mexican investigators were allowed on U.S. soil to look into the deaths of Mexican citizens at the hands of your military at Rampart One for several days, until your so-called investigators had a chance to sanitize the crime scenes so no useful evidence could be collected by our Border Affairs investigators…”

“Are you accusing the United States of destroying evidence in a criminal investigation?”

“I am telling you, Mr. Conrad, that Mexico does not, nor probably ever will, know the true reason for the deaths of our citizens at the hands of the robot working on behalf of Operation Rampart, and that is because of the unreasonable and illegal demands you placed on us,” Díaz responded bitterly. “We were not allowed to investigate or question witnesses for almost three days after the incident occurred. Now you expect Mexico to not only allow your FBI and Navy to accompany our investigators, but you demand that they take over our investigation, dismissing all Mexican law enforcement agencies like some third-rate circus-clown act? I think not!”

“Minister Díaz, I certainly did not—”

“Mr. Conrad, the Foreign Ministry here has requested permission from your Department of State to allow me free diplomatic travel within the United States, specifically to address the United Nations Security Council to air my country’s grievances concerning your arming of the border, illegal detainment of Mexican citizens, and acts of violence against Mexican citizens,” Díaz said. “I have not received the courtesy of a reply, which I find very disturbing. Is it your intention to deny me entrance into your country and full diplomatic privileges?”

“Of course not—not at this time,” the President replied. “Mexico is not on our list of sponsors of terrorism—although if the situation worsens or if we receive additional information concerning your government’s involvement in terrorist acts in the United States, that could change.”

“That sounds like a threat, Conrad,” Díaz said. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Conrad? Are you trying to bully me into actions contrary to my government’s policies and laws?”

“I’m stating facts, Minister Díaz,” the President said. “I will confer with the Secretary of State and inquire on your application, and I see no reason at this time for there to be any undue delays. But the United States does not allow heads of governments that sponsor terrorism to enter the United States.”

“I hope you are prepared for substantial international condemnation if you refuse to allow me to address the United Nations in New York,” Díaz said angrily. “I hope your surprising lack of judgment and consideration is caused by grief and confusion over the recent violence, Mr. Conrad, and not by some new confrontational and racist policy toward the United Mexican States. Think carefully before you act on these hateful impulses or faulty paranoid advice from your neoconservative, warmongering advisers.”

“I will take your advice under careful advisement, Minister,” President Conrad said. “In the meantime, I have a possible solution for all those Mexican citizens who might wish to return to the United States.”

“Oh?”

“We have developed an identification technology that is simple, unobtrusive, accurate, and reliable,” the President said. “Within a matter of weeks it can be ready for mass implementation. It will provide thousands of citizens with an identification code that can be used by immigration and law enforcement personnel to determine any person’s identity.”

“We already have identification cards, Mr. Conrad.”

“This is not a card—it is a pill that a person swallows. The pill…”

“Did you say, a pill?”

“…releases thousands of tiny nanotransceivers in the body that transmit a coded signal when interrogated. The coded signal can be matched with official identification documents to—”

“Are you suggesting that our people swallow a radio beacon that reports their location to authorities twenty-four hours a day?” Díaz asked incredulously. “This is the most insane and intrusive idea that I have ever heard!”

“It sounds radical, I know,” the President said, “but the devices are completely harmless—”

“You are crazy, Mr. Conrad! I could never recommend that the citizens of my country ever participate in such an outlandish—!”

“Minister Díaz, I am proposing that each Mexican citizen who wishes to return to the United States may be allowed to simply walk back into this country and return to his or her job and home simply by providing a Mexican identity card and swallowing a NIS pill—”

“‘Nice?’ That is what you call this…this Big Brother eavesdropping monstrosity?”

“The presence of the identification code proves that the individual has chosen to obey the law and respect our borders and security obligations,” the President said. “The NIS system will reduce the time it will take to identify individuals eligible for guest worker status: anyone with the code can stay and participate in a guest worker program; anyone not having such a code will be detained. It is a fair, unobtrusive, and easy solution…”

“This is no solution at all—it is a gross marginalization of a human being’s basic right to freedom and privacy!” Felix Díaz retorted. “Do you actually expect that this so-called ‘Nice’ program will replace serious and equitable negotiations between our nations for a resolution to this crisis, or do you expect to just dictate that this otherworldly, Draconian abomination be implemented?” He did not give President Conrad a chance to respond. “You may call me when you have a serious solution to discuss, sir. Good day to you.” And the connection was terminated with a loud Crraack!

The President returned the handset to its cradle and sat back in his chair, looking out the window. “Well, the NIS idea went over like a lead balloon,” he said morosely. “But as I was explaining it to Díaz, it started to sound better and better to me.”

“It will never fly, sir,” Chief of Staff Thomas Kinsly said. “It’s a crazy idea anyway—I would be surprised if anyone in Mexico was even the least bit interested in the idea. But what about Díaz, sir? Did it sound like he’s in charge now?”

“Absolutely,” the President said. “Felix Díaz definitely sounds like he’s taken over—he hardly mentioned Maravilloso and anyone else in the government, as if they never even existed. Jeez, I thought Maravilloso was a bomb thrower—Díaz has got her beat ten ways to Sunday.” He turned to Kinsly and asked, “What do we know about Díaz, Tom?”

“Felix Díaz is a major player—very wealthy, very popular, very politically connected, hawkish, an obvious front-runner for president in their next elections,” Kinsly said. “The rumors are that he and Maravilloso have been carrying on with each other for a few months—right in the presidential palace too, I hear.

“The Internal Affairs Ministry is one of the most important and far-reaching in the Mexican government, and Felix Díaz is a hands-on, knowledgeable administrator,” Kinsly went on. “He controls the intelligence apparatus, the border patrols, the antidrug bureaus, the federal police, and all domestic investigations—almost everything except foreign affairs, the courts, and the military, and he probably has a big hand in those as well. The Ministry of Internal Affairs is almost as well-equipped as the military, especially along the border.”

“I need information on the situation out there,” the President demanded. “I need to find out if Díaz has staged a coup and what we’re up against.”

“We don’t have a functioning embassy in Mexico City that can help us go find out information for us, sir,” National Security Adviser Ray Jefferson said, “so we’re going to have to rely on technical and human intelligence to get information, which will take time. But if these attacks by Mexican émigrés are being supported or even organized by Felix Díaz, and he’s now in charge of the government, we could be looking at a long, protracted, and deadly ongoing insurgency against the United States—perhaps even a guerrilla war.”

The President’s head shot up as if a gun had been fired in the Oval Office, but the Chief of Staff was the first to retort: “Sergeant Major, as usual, you’re overreacting to recent developments. What could his motive possibly be?”

“Exactly what’s happening, Mr. Kinsly: chaos, pandemonium, hatred, distrust, confusion, fear, and violence,” Jefferson said. “An insurgency forces the issue of immigration reform—more accurately, immigration liberalization—onto the front burner.”

“How? What’s he hoping to gain?”

“Do you think, Mr. Kinsly, that Congress is likely to enact any legislation that will curb immigration now, with thousands of Mexican workers leaving the country every day?” Jefferson asked. “Folks won’t focus on the violence—in fact, I would think more folks would likely blame the U.S. government for causing the violence with our ‘radical’ border security measures. Proimmigration reform measures will be seen as the way to stop the violence and get everyone’s lives back to normal. The more restrictive or onerous the rules and requirements for establishing the right to work, deportation, pay, benefits, and citizenship, the more the people and Congress will oppose it. All attempts at meaningful border security and illegal immigration control will be pushed aside.”

“That’s crazy,” Kinsly said. “You can’t possibly believe that Mexico is purposely encouraging people to attack the United States in order to force a resolution to the illegal immigration situation?”

“No, Mr. Kinsly—I’m suggesting that forces within the Mexican government, possibly aided by the Consortium and also by radical leaders like Ernesto Fuerza, are staging violent attacks against the United States in order to incite their people to react against the United States, whether by violence or simply by leaving their jobs and heading south,” Jefferson responded. “There could be other reasons as well—political, financial, criminal, even public relations—but by doing what they’re doing, they are forcing the United States to expend a lot of political, financial, and military resources on this issue. I don’t know if the Mexican government is assisting the insurgents, but they don’t have to—all they need do is play along. Whatever they’re doing, Mr. Kinsly, it’s working.”

“I’m still not buying it, Sergeant Major,” Kinsly said. At that moment the phone rang. Kinsly picked it up, listened…and groaned audibly. “A suspected terrorist attack at a university north of Los Angeles,” he said after he replaced the receiver. “Possibly a truck bomb outside an engineering building. L.A. County sheriffs and California Highway Patrol bomb squads are on it.” The President said nothing, the National Security Adviser noticed, as if suspected terrorist truck bombs were as common as traffic accidents nowadays. But that’s what the world had come to, he thought ruefully: if it wasn’t bigger than Nine-Eleven, the Consortium attacks on Houston, or the floods in New Orleans, it hardly registered on the White House’s radarscope anymore.

At that moment Ray Jefferson’s wireless PDA beeped. Knowing that only an extremely urgent message would have gotten through to him while in a meeting at the Oval Office, he pulled the device from his jacket pocket and activated it. He read quickly, his face falling; moments later, a look of astonishment swept across his face. “I have an update on that situation at the university, Mr. President,” he said, shaking his head in amazement, “and you are not going to believe it.”