Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 1

HENDERSON, NEVADA

LATER THAT MORNING

“Don’t talk to me about bigotry, xenophobia, or racism,” Bob O’Rourke said even before the country-western bumper music faded completely away. “Don’t you dare call this show and call me a racist. I’m mad enough to chew nails right now, my friends, and I might just lose my temper.”

Fand Kent, Bob O’Rourke’s producer and call screener on the top-rated nationally syndicated talk radio show The Bottom Line, smiled broadly as she turned the gain down on her headphones. If you looked up the term type-A personality in the dictionary, you might find Bob O’Rourke’s picture there. He was always head-strong, dynamic, animated, energized—but he was even more so behind the microphone. During their one-hour production meeting before each show in Bob’s office, he had the usual array of national newspapers stacked up on his desk and his ever-present tablet PC notebook ready to take electronic notes, but today when she walked in for the meeting there were just as many newspapers on the floor, and crumpled up and tossed toward the wastebasket.

Bob O’Rourke’s loud, deep, rapid-fire voice with just a slight Texas twang in it was exactly opposite of his physical appearance, which Bob carefully worked to conceal (and which cost the jobs of a few other producers when they slipped up and released unflattering descriptions of their boss): he was five six and weighed one-forty soaking wet, with thin black hair, a thin neck, very light skin, despite living in a town with eleven months of sunshine a year, and rather delicate-looking features. He was so self-conscious of his physical stature that he wore a cowboy hat, boots, and sunglasses all the time, even in the studio, and had trained his voice to become deeper. Some might call it a “Napoleon complex,” others might call it ego and vanity carried to the extreme. Fand Kent knew enough to keep her mouth shut whenever that subject was broached. You never knew when a rival producer or media reporter was nearby.

“If you ask me, my friends,” O’Rourke went on, “this attack, this assault, this brutal assassination is every bit as serious and troubling as the terror attacks in San Francisco, Houston, and Washington in recent months. Don’t give me that look, Fonda. Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me! You know what I’m talking about!”

Fand was busy with the phones and her computers and hadn’t even looked up at him, but it didn’t matter—he constantly accused her of disagreeing with his comments and ideas, which were all part of the show. She was smart enough never to let him know her true opinions.

“I know, I know, it’s not Fonda, it’s ‘Fand,’ the Celtic goddess of truth, goodness, happiness, understanding, and Kumbaya, or some such nonsense that you were named after. To me, it sounds like ‘Fonda,’ another liberal tree-hugging ‘everyone be happy let’s all get along’ character, so that’s what I’m going to call you. I’m warning you, Fonda, the O’Rourke trap is open and you’re one step away from getting chomped, young lady.” Fand only shook her head and smiled as she went about her work.

“I am not talking about numbers of dead or injured, my friends,” he went on to his worldwide radio audience. “I’m not talking about weapons of mass destruction. I am talking about the enormity of the attack, the audacity, the sheer brazenness of it. You liberals think that an attack against the United States has to kill hundreds or thousands of persons, or law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty aren’t to be considered victims of an ‘attack.’ Well, my friends, I don’t.

“In case you don’t know what I’m talking about here, in case you’ve been living under a rock or hugging a tree or counting snail darters in Lake Mead with your head underwater and your brains up your butt, I’ll bring the ignoramuses in the audience up to speed,” O’Rourke went on. “Yesterday evening, four United States Border Patrol agents were gunned down just off Interstate 10 between Blythe and Indio, California. No, wait, just hold on. ‘Gunned down’ is too soft, too gentle, too Fonda. Let’s call it what it was: they were slaughtered. They were shot to death by automatic gunfire as they were making an immigration stop. These men were executed. And for what? For enforcing the immigration and border security laws of the United States of America, that’s what.

“The assassins didn’t stop there, my friends, oh no, not by a long shot. They killed a total of ten Mexican nationals, including a pregnant woman and an eleven-year-old boy. The killers then made off with a Border Patrol vehicle. Incredible. Simply incredible. Horrifying is more like it. This is the worst killing in the line of duty in the history of the Border Patrol.”

As if he needed something to get him even more hopped up, O’Rourke took a handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans and popped them into his mouth before continuing: “So what’s the status of the hunt for the killers? I called Mr. James Abernathy, director of U.S. Customs and Border Protection, the folks who run the Border Patrol. He said he could not comment because of the ongoing investigation. Same response from Attorney General Wentworth. Fair enough. I’m not going to aid and assist the terrorists by pushing the investigators into revealing any clues that might make the killers scatter.

“But I asked both gentlemen what’s being done to secure our borders and prevent another attack like this from happening again, and do you know what they said? Mr. Abernathy’s spokesperson said, ‘We’re doing everything possible.’ Attorney General Wentworth’s spokesman said, ‘Everything legally authorized is being done, with all due respect for the rights of those involved in this activity.’ Excuse me?”

O’Rourke hit a button and the recorded sound of a large steel trap snapping closed went out over the airwaves. “I sense fresh meat in the O’Rourke trap, my friends. “‘Everything possible?’ My friends, do you realize that the four agents killed yesterday represented one tenth of all of the agents assigned to patrol the eastern Riverside County area of southern California? Ten percent of the agents assigned to ground patrol duties were killed in one night. Forty agents assigned to patrol about twenty-five hundred square miles of some of the busiest illegal migrant activity in the southwestern United States? That’s one agent for roughly every fifty square miles. Imagine having two cops to patrol a city the size of Las Vegas. How many crooks do you think they’re going to capture?

“Attorney General Wentworth’s spokesman said that the government is going to respect the ‘rights of those involved in this activity.’” The snap! of the steel trap closing sounded again. “Wrong! I believe Attorney General Wentworth’s spokesman is referring to respecting the rights of illegal migrants, migrant smugglers, and maybe even the rights of murderers. Is he actually suggesting that we consider the rights of the trespassers and murderers versus the rights of endangered American citizens before deciding what we’re going to do to combat these border incursions and attacks?

“As all my loyal listeners around the world know, I always have a copy of the Constitution of the United States right in front of me, and I refer to it often in questions like this. The Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution says that all rights, liberties, and protections of the Constitution apply to citizens of the United States. It also says that no state can deny any person—including illegal aliens and murderers, I suppose—life, liberty, property, or access to the legal system without due process. My question to Attorney General Wentworth is: what further considerations are you bound to give illegals and murderers before deciding how to enforce the law? We have laws against murder and crossing the borders through other than regular border crossings; we have agencies legally set up to enforce those laws. No one is being denied anything. So why isn’t the government acting to stop illegal immigration?

“The bottom line: this wishy-washy feel-good politically correct nonsense has got to stop, my friends, before we blindly allow more violence across our borders,” Bob O’Rourke went on. “This namby-pamby mealy-mouth tap-dancing rhetoric regarding such a basic, fundamental, and important national policy such as controlling immigration, sovereignty, and security is a national outrage. An estimated one million persons illegally cross the borders of the United States every year. Estimates of the number of persons illegally in the United States at any given time range from ten to twelve million, and the number is increasing every year despite the attacks on Nine-Eleven and the recent Consortium terror attacks. The United States can put a man on the moon, read newspapers from twenty-one-thousand miles in space, and fly a plane across the country in two hours, but we can’t stop poor uneducated Mexican peasants from strolling across the border?

“I say we can, my friends, and I say we do it now, before any more law enforcement officers get slaughtered. Those four men left behind wives, children, family, and friends, and our country owes it to them and owes it to all citizens to do something right now to stop this tidal wave of illegal immigration.

“As you all know, because I’ve been harping on it for months now, the effort to repeal the Posse Comitatus Act is stalled in Congress, and President Conrad seems unable or unwilling to push it. This is another outrage, and the President had better have the guts to take the hands of the wives, children, and mothers of those slain officers in his, look them in the eye, and promise he’ll get the job done. What else will it take? Will more officers and illegals have to die? Does another city have to be attacked before this President gets off his best intentions and puts his political and personal reputation on the line to repeal Posse Comitatus and protect the borders?

“All of my loyal listeners across this great country know my plan, but in case you’re tuning in for the first time or you’re just a bleeding-heart liberal illegal-hugger like Fonda, here it is, so listen up. It’s simple: bring every National Guardsman home from overseas and put him and her to work patrolling the nation’s borders. We’ve had experts on this show many times that say the U.S.-Mexico border can be sealed off with fewer than ten percent of the entire manpower of the Army and Air National Guard, or twenty percent of the manpower of the Guard just in the south border states of California, Arizona, New Mexico, Florida, and Texas. The National Guard was originally established to protect, defend, and secure the individual states and the United States, and only secondarily to augment the regular forces. We already have a nationwide declaration of war against terrorism—the governors don’t need any more authority or repeal of Posse Comitatus to deploy Guard forces in their own states.

“But the active-duty military forces have the real equipment, training, and manpower to make this work, so they need to be brought in as soon as possible. Therefore, step two: Congress should repeal the Posse Comitatus Act immediately, or at the very least the President should suspend it while the country is in a state of war, as we are now, and all of the strength and capabilities of our military forces should be brought to bear to secure the borders.

“I’ve been in the Air Force command centers up at Beale Air Force Base in California watching unmanned Global Hawk aircraft twenty thousand feet in the sky locating and tracking individuals from half a world away; I’ve seen infrared detectors spot individuals hiding under trees or even in underground spider holes; I’ve seen Joint STARS aircraft identifying and tracking hundreds of vehicles by radar over thousands of square miles. Guess how many Global Hawks we have patrolling Iraq and Afghanistan right now? Seven, according to the public affairs folks at Beale Air Force Base. How many do we have patrolling anywhere in the U.S.? You guessed it—none! How many Joint STARS patrolling Iraq and Afghanistan? Six—that’s all we have, my friends, leaving none to protect our own borders. We have less than twenty percent of the Air Force’s fleet of smaller Predator unmanned reconnaissance aircraft patrolling our own borders.

“Technologically, I know we can do it—the question is, do we have the political will to do it? You will hear that illegal immigrants do work that Americans don’t want to do.” Again the sound of the trap snapping shut. “O’Rourke says ‘hogwash’! Farm owners prefer immigrant labor because they’re cheap, plentiful, work in absurdly deplorable conditions, and don’t complain or cause trouble for fear of deportation. If farmworkers were paid an honest wage instead of a slave laborer’s wage, more Americans would do those jobs, or the farm owners would modernize their equipment and procedures to make farming even more efficient and profitable. Any higher costs would just be passed along to consumers anyway, where the market would then dictate prices—but undoubtedly unemployment would go down in the meantime.

“You will hear that politicians don’t like legislating against illegal immigrants because it will anger ethnic voters.” Snap! “Again, O’Rourke says ‘hogwash’! Legal immigrants and naturalized citizens oppose illegal immigration just as much as native-born citizens do because illegals are breaking the law—which hurts everyone—paints them with the same bigoted, racist, xenophobic brush as the illegals, and diminishes all the efforts they’ve made to come into this country legally.”

O’Rourke paused for a few breaths, then went on: “I know a lot of you are advocating a guest worker program. Say what? A what worker program?” Snap! “Bullpies! I won’t even consider a guest worker program until every last man and woman in this country who wants a job has a job, and that’ll be a long, long time in coming, my friends. Don’t you dare try to sugarcoat the issue by telling me that Mexicans do jobs that Americans won’t do! Illegals have done those jobs because farmers and other employers would rather pay them a few pennies an hour rather than what a worker is legally entitled to. Pay an honest wage for an honest day’s work and you won’t need to hire slave labor to do the work.

“And don’t you dare try to call it a guest worker program, as if the illegals will leave when we ask them to and won’t come back unless we invite them. Calling someone a ‘guest’ implies that we want these people to enter our country. We can’t have it both ways, my friends. We can’t demand sovereign, secure borders, no risk of terror attacks, and no risk of skyrocketing costs associated with providing public services to illegals, and then ask for allowing undocumented, untraceable persons the right to legally enter the country and work. Trading security for comfort and convenience is not the answer.

“Step three is the stick: anyone found violating immigration laws risks detainment, not just deportment. Anyone caught without proper proof of citizenship is sent to a detainment facility to await administrative processing and deportment. These detention camps are minimum security, minimum amenity facilities—the persons detained are not there for rest and relaxation, but to await deportation, in which the length of time they are detained depends on the size of the facility, the number of judges assigned to work the cases, and the number of detainees. Multiple violators face federal jail time. Children born in a detainment facility are not considered U.S. citizens. If they must lose wages because they go to a detention camp every time they’re caught without a guest worker permit, or if their offspring are denied citizenship, maybe they’ll think twice before trying to sneak across the border.

“I see Fonda rolling her eyes at me already,” O’Rourke said. This time, his little bit of radio theatrics was right on—she was rolling her eyes at him. Although Kent knew about today’s topic and was ready for the onslaught of calls, even she looked at O’Rourke with a bit of trepidation. The phone lines were beginning to light up, and she knew that not everyone was going to want to talk with the host. The angry but radio-shy among them would scream at her instead, and she really hated that—it was her job, of course, but she still hated it. “I can hear the politicians in California calling me a racist and likening all this to Japanese internment camps in the 1940s. Folks, there’s no doubt that those camps were born of mass hysteria and xenophobia—every man or woman after Pearl Harbor with sloped eyes was a Jap spy. That was racism, and that was wrong.

“Here’s O’Rourke’s bottom line: those found illegally entering the United States are criminals. At best they are trespassers, flouting our laws and taking money and services from legal citizens. At worst, they could be terrorists, murderers, rapists, and vandals. This is unacceptable. This madness has got to stop. Are you listening, Washington? Are you listening, President Conrad?”

O’Rourke looked up and saw Fand with her hands upraised in surrender, and a quick glance at the computer screen told him why: the switchboard was completely full. “All right, you people, I’ve ranted enough. The lines are jammed, so keep your comments short and sweet and let everyone have a chance to voice an opinion. America is once again under siege, not only by illegal immigrants but now by terrorists sneaking across the border with the illegals. We’re talking about illegal immigration and what the Conrad administration must do about it right now. I’m Bob O’Rourke—welcome to The Bottom Line. Let’s get it on—right after this commercial message. Stay right there.”

THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THAT SAME TIME

“That rat bastard!” the President of the United States, Samuel Conrad, thundered as he exited his private study adjacent to the Oval Office. “Who does that guy think he is? He doesn’t know anything except what some hack reporter puts out over the wires. Somebody save me from the know-it-alls in the world.”

The President’s National Security Adviser, Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson, U.S. Army, had just walked into the Oval Office when the President finished his tirade. The President’s Chief of Staff, Thomas F. Kinsly, was fixing the President a cup of coffee—decaf, Jefferson hoped—and he immediately made his way over to fix himself a cup. The White House had the best coffee in the world, Jefferson learned, but the Oval Office stuff seemed even better, and he never failed to grab a cup when he could.

Ray Jefferson took his coffee, stepped back behind the sofa in the little meeting area of the Oval Office—and almost seemed to disappear from sight. That was his favorite of all his many talents learned over almost three decades in the military: the ability to seem insignificant, blend into his surroundings, and look completely disarming. He was of just over average height, wiry, with short dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to reflect his mood at any given moment: they could be light and friendly one moment, dark and angry the next, but they were sharp and rarely missed anything. His ability to stand perfectly still, listen, and observe people and events around him had always served him well, and even more so now in his rough and tumble political role as the President of the United States’ National Security Adviser.

Thomas Kinsly, the President’s White House Chief of Staff, was everything Jefferson was not. Like the former Chief of Staff Victoria Collins, Kinsly was another one of the President’s close friends; a successful fund-raiser, and political organizer and operative, he was an expert at networking and strategizing but had almost no experience working with entrenched Washington bureaucrats and politicians with their own agendas—even Ray Jefferson, a soldier since age seventeen, was more politically astute than Kinsly. He was younger than his predecessor, tall, dark, and good-looking, well spoken and affable with the media, but known as hard-charging and relentless with his staffers. Kinsly had made it clear early on that Jefferson was not, and probably would never be, a member of the inner circle.

Fine with him, Jefferson told himself early on. He didn’t have to kiss ass to get access to the highest seats of power in the free world.

“There you are, Sergeant Major,” the President said, finally noticing his National Security Adviser’s presence even though he had been there for a while. Samuel Conrad was tall, gray-haired, and distinguished-looking—a photo-perfect figure of the chief executive. After graduating from Rutgers University with a degree in accounting and then Rutgers School of Law, almost his entire professional life had been in public service: two terms in the New Jersey legislature, two terms in the U.S. House of Representatives, two years in the White House Budget Office, four years as Undersecretary of the Treasury, two terms as the governor of New Jersey, two years in the White House Chief of Staff’s office, and one term in the U.S. Senate before reaching the Oval Office. He was normally unflappable and in control—this was the first time in Jefferson’s recollection that he ever saw the President in the Oval Office with so much as his tie loosened, let alone with a raised voice.

Jefferson didn’t care much for politicians or bean counters, but he felt an obligation to this President as a way to make up for the death and destruction caused by Jefferson’s old boss, the previous National Security Adviser to the President, who betrayed and almost killed the President and who was responsible for the deaths of thousands before he was finally stopped. Anything that got this President so angry had to be serious.

Jefferson waited to see if the President would explain what the shouting was about, but that was not yet forthcoming. “Any updates on the Border Patrol killings last night, Ray?” the President asked.

“Just what Director DeLaine sent over from the Bureau about an hour ago, sir,” Ray replied. “No new leads. These guys were pros—I reject Secretary Lemke’s theory that it was a turf war between smuggler gangs.”

“Why?”

“Pistols and shotguns, maybe—but AK-47s put these guys several steps above the average smuggler,” Jefferson replied. “Plus the evidence of body armor. These guys were professional soldiers.”

“Your analysis, then?”

“Same as this morning’s briefing, sir—it was an infiltration by a heavily armed and trained commando squad, similar to what we encountered with the Consortium,” Jefferson replied. The energy monopoly–turned terrorist organization known as the Consortium, secretly led by now-deceased former National Security Adviser to the President of the United States, Robert Chamberlain, had been held responsible for the terror attacks in Houston, San Francisco, and Washington. Despite the efforts of hundreds of law enforcement agencies around the world, the organization was believed still in operation, now led by ex–Russian oil oligarch Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov. “Could even be another Consortium infiltration: Zakharov looking to even the score and sending in troops via a different, more established—and frankly, highly successful—route. I’d consider using human smugglers to bring my terrorist forces into the U.S. if I wanted to sneak in: chances are better than five-to-one I’d make it.”

The President nodded, then picked up a briefing folder. “I read your recommendations about this ‘Operation Rampart’ project, Sergeant Major. Lots of tough love in here.” He saw Jefferson’s eyes narrow, and the piercing glare made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Something on your mind, Ray? Let’s hear it.”

“I’d appreciate it, sir, if you tell me flat out what you think of my plan,” Jefferson said. “‘Tough love’ doesn’t tell me a thing.”

“That’s out of line, Jefferson,” Kinsly snapped.

The President raised a hand toward his Chief of Staff, then tossed the folder back on his desk. “I’ve gotta learn to be more direct with you, Sergeant Major,” he said. He motioned to the memo. “Let me get this straight, Ray: you want to put an entire Army division on the border?”

“I proposed forming a task force which would be about division-sized—about twenty thousand troops, including Army and Air Force aviation reconnaissance, logistics, and communications support assets, sir,” Jefferson explained. “I recommend Reserves or National Guard units instead of active-duty forces, each working in their own home state—it might give them a little added incentive to do a better job.”

“And you expect them to completely seal off the southern border?” Kinsly asked.

“It wouldn’t be one hundred percent, Mr. Kinsly, but it would be a hell of a lot better than what we have now.” He turned to the President. “Sir, the military as you know is legally prohibited from performing law enforcement duties, but they can assist law enforcement, and already do on a regular basis. Let’s step up surveillance along the borders and see if the level of illegal border crossings is on the increase, then interdict some of these migrants and find out who they are—migrant workers, illegal immigrants, or in fact terrorists. That’s the real question we’re facing here, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean, Ray?”

“I mean, if those Border Patrol agents were gunned down by a few stoned, desperate, or rambunctious migrant farmworkers with itchy trigger fingers, nothing more will be done about it,” Jefferson said. “But if on the other hand it was some kind of terror group infiltrating through our southern borders, and they retaliated to prevent being discovered or captured, we should retaliate with everything we got.

“If you want to secure the borders and try to prevent what happened last night, sir, let’s do it,” Jefferson went on resolutely. “In my opinion the Border Patrol is not up to the task—in fact, the entire Customs and Border Protection Service is not equipped to secure the borders. They’re a law enforcement unit, not a security one. I’m sure they’ve upgraded their weapons and tactics over the years, but in my mind they’re still the guys on horseback and in pickup trucks cruising the desert looking for Chicanos sneaking into America. The military knows surveillance and reconnaissance the best—let them do their jobs.”

“Putting the military in a law enforcement function is against the law, Sergeant Major.”

“This tasking is not a violation of the Posse Comitatus Act,” Jefferson responded. “I still believe we should be working to repeal Posse Comitatus, but in case it’s not repealed this operation would not violate it. The military would serve a surveillance and interdiction role only, the same as they do with antidrug smuggling operations—the Border Patrol, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, FBI, customs, or state or local law enforcement would make the arrests and conduct the investigations. We can start immediately and have it completed in less than six months.”

“Six months?”

“Secure a mostly open three-thousand-mile border of the United States from illegal entry by groups of persons or undeclared, unidentified vehicles? Yes, sir,” Jefferson said. “It’ll take manpower and technology, but most importantly it’ll take strong backing by the federal, state, and local governments and support from the citizens. But it can be done. A combination of strategic and tactical reconnaissance and rapid-reaction forces strung out across the border, similar to what the Coast Guard and Customs Service do along American waters and ports.”

“Sounds like you’re going to war here, Sergeant,” Kinsly said.

“It’s ‘Sergeant Major,’ Mr. Kinsly, not ‘Sergeant,’” Jefferson said, affixing a warning glare and voice inflection that were not so subtle as to be overlooked by the Chief of Staff. “Large numbers of unidentified, heavily armed gunmen coming across the border and killing Americans—it sounds like war to me too, sir.” To the President he said, “If you want action, sir, this is what it’ll take, in my best estimation. I can’t guarantee a few terrorists or illegals won’t slip through, but with proper backup and support from state and local agencies I think we can get the job done.”

The President remained silent, which prompted Kinsly to press his arguments even more. “You want plain talk, Sergeant Major? I believe your plan would be a political disaster,” Kinsly said, emphasizing the words “sergeant major” sarcastically enough to elicit another warning glare. “It would outrage Hispanics, liberal politicians, human and civil rights groups, the Mexican government, the governors of the border states, and probably several dozen other groups I haven’t even thought of yet.”

“I don’t report to any of those people, sir—I report to the President of the United States, same as you,” Jefferson said flatly. “The President requested my opinion on how to stop illegal immigration, not how to placate several dozen disparate political groups. That’s someone else’s job.”

“You’re wrong there, Sergeant Major—the political aspects of this office is everyone’s job, just like the military decisions made in this office affect the political landscape,” the President said. “Remember that.”

“Yes, sir, I will.” He scowled at Kinsly, who withered under his glare. “Anything else for me, sir?”

“I’m going to fly out to San Diego to attend the funerals of those Border Patrol agents killed last night,” the President said somberly. “I’ll meet with the directors of the Customs and Border Protection Service and the Immigration and Customs Enforcement Service afterward.”

“I’d like to go along and hear those briefings too, sir.”

“I thought you might. Approved.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jefferson said. “I’d like permission to bring along my own advisers as well.”

“Of course; bring anyone you need. Submit their names to Tom for clearances. Who do you have in mind?” But before Jefferson could respond, the President’s eyes widened, and he said, “Richter and Vega, I presume?”

“Implementing a major border security program with a division-sized task force will take time, sir,” Jefferson said. “I thought it would be prudent to try a smaller task force first. Task Force TALON is already formed; it already has a security and antiterrorist mission and full authorization to gain assets from any active or reserve units necessary; and they’re already located in the southwest.” Task Force TALON was a joint military and FBI counterterrorist strike team led by Ray Jefferson before he became the National Security Adviser; now Major Jason Richter and Dr. Ariadna Vega, formerly of the Army Research Lab, were in charge. “I want to bring in an officer from the National Guard Bureau to listen in too.”

“I thought TALON was disbanded after the Chamberlain fiasco,” Kinsly said.

“Negative, sir,” Jefferson said. “TALON received additional funding from the Departments of Defense and Homeland Security under a secret emergency authorization. Since the Consortium attacks last year, TALON has grown to company size, about two hundred members. They have eight CID squads—sixteen CID units—plus one training and maintenance squad. They operate missions all over the world: they are still active in north and central Africa and Central Asia, hunting down Zakharov and other surviving members of the Consortium.”

Kinsly nodded. “I have to admit TALON is the pride and joy of the nation after what they did in San Francisco and Washington,” he said. “It’ll be a much easier sell to have TALON involved than just saying we’re militarizing the southern border.” But he turned to the President with a serious expression. “But we are militarizing the border—or that’s how it’s going to be perceived in the world, Mr. President. The United States has always prided itself on having unarmed borders. This will erase almost a century of cooperation and coexistence between us and the Mexican government, and it’s almost certain to raise criticism against us, charging bigotry, xenophobia, isolationism, even racism.”

“Before Nine-Eleven, Kingman City, San Francisco, and now these killings near Blythe, I would never consider doing it,” the President said. “Now, I have no choice—something has to be done, and right now.” He looked at both Kinsly and Jefferson. “But I want fresh ideas on the illegal immigration problem, gents,” he said. “I know what the Border Patrol wants: more money for more men and equipment. That’s one solution, but I want new ideas, better solutions.”

“I want to send Task Force TALON in ahead of our visit so they can give us a report after we hear from CBP and ICE, sir,” Jefferson said. “That’ll give them a complete perspective on the situation along the borders.”

“That could be an invitation to disaster, Jefferson,” Kinsly said. “We don’t want any complaints from immigrant or human rights groups. Your task force can hunt down terrorists in the U.S., but they should be directed to keep their hands off any illegal immigrants they find. Let the Border Patrol and Immigration and Customs Enforcement do their jobs.”

“Ray?” the President prompted.

“They can act as observers only, unless they find anyone they consider to be terrorists,” Jefferson said. Kinsly’s expression showed his distrust, but he said nothing, giving tacit approval.

“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” the President said. “Anything else for me?”

“Yes, sir. May I ask what your outburst was about a few moments ago?”

The President smiled and nodded knowingly at Kinsly. “I tell you, Tom, that’s why I hired this guy: he says what’s on his mind.”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘curiosity killed the cat,’” Kinsly said drily.

“Did you happen to catch Bob O’Rourke’s radio show this morning, Sergeant Major?”

“No, sir.”

“But you’re familiar with his show?”

“I’ve heard the name, sir, but I don’t listen to talk radio or TV—in fact, I don’t watch much TV or listen to the radio at all. Never have.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ve got my own theories and ideas, sir, and they’re based on information and sources I know are accurate,” Jefferson replied. “Anything else is propaganda, disinformation, or entertainment.”

“O’Rourke’s radio show has ten million listeners a day on seven hundred stations around the world, plus satellite and shortwave—it’s even streamed live on the Internet,” Kinsly said. “He has an opinion column syndicated in a thousand newspapers around the world. He’s one of the most popular and influential media types in the United States, probably the world.”

Not surprisingly, none of that seemed to impress Jefferson in the least. “Bob O’Rourke and all those radio commentators say what they say to shock or outrage their listeners,” he said. “I see no value in listening to him. If I want entertainment, I’ll visit the senior enlisted club at Fort Myers on payday.”

“Seems like a rather myopic and self-centered view of the world, Jefferson,” Kinsly said haughtily. “You pick and choose what you want to listen to and make decisions based on a limited perspective. Perhaps you need to broaden your exposure a bit more.”

“I serve as the National Security Adviser of the President of the United States, Mr. Kinsly,” Jefferson said, his voice becoming deeper and, both Kinsly and Conrad recognized, more menacing. “I have access to sources and data that I never even dreamed existed, even when I was the former National Security Adviser’s aide-de-camp. With the information at my fingertips now, why would I waste my time listening to a hack like Bob O’Rourke?”

“I listen to his show when I’m near a radio, Sergeant Major,” the President said with a smile. “Do you think I’m wasting my time?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Kinsly looked aghast, which quickly changed to rising anger. “Have a little respect for the office, Jefferson,” he said.

But the President only laughed. “That’s why I picked you for this job, Sergeant Major—I know you’ll give me a straight answer every time.”

“That’s my job, sir.”

“It may interest you to know that your proposal is almost precisely what O’Rourke talked about on his radio show this morning.”

The President thought he detected a very slight uptick of a corner of Jefferson’s mouth—which may or may not have been a smile. “Maybe this O’Rourke character has something on the ball after all.”

“Was that a joke, Sergeant Major?” the President asked with mock surprise.

“I’m a military man, sir,” Jefferson said, ignoring the sarcasm. “My perspective has always been and probably will always be from a military perspective”—he glared again at Kinsly before adding—“…not a political or entertainment one. Border security and illegal migration began as a societal and cultural problem, grew into an economic problem, and has now exploded into a national security problem. I’m sure there’s a political element in there too, but I don’t feel I’m qualified to handle that.”

The President raised a hand. “Message received loud and clear, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I hired you for one simple reason: I want straight talk and honest answers. I have no doubt that if we stray into an area that you can’t help me with, you’ll say so and not try to bullshit me.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Good.” He nodded at the plan Jefferson had submitted and went on, “I’ll staff your proposal and present it to the congressional leadership for feedback, but after what happened down there in Blythe I’m ready to implement your plan immediately. Get everyone ready to go and I’ll give you the go-ahead as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

The President held up the order. “Have Secretary Lemke or his designee be in overall charge of the sergeant major’s Operation Rampart program, but we’ll put Task Force TALON in charge for now until the forces ramp up. Have Major Richter fly out with me to San Diego aboard Air Force One so we can talk, and afterward meet with the Border Patrol and other Homeland Security folks in southern California.

“Also, draft an executive order implementing Operation Rampart,” the President went on. “We will begin construction of the border security apparatus in four phases: California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Request an emergency appropriation for the first four years of the California portion of the system, to begin construction of the forward operating bases and procurement of the unmanned aerial vehicles and support equipment immediately. The rest we’ll have to put through the normal budget process. The order will include federalization of the National Guard and Reserves and mobilization of the necessary active-duty personnel and equipment per the plan.” He turned to Jefferson. “Ray, whom do you recommend to oversee the operation?”

“Mr. President, I’ve nominated Brigadier General Ricardo Lopez, the national deputy director for the Army National Guard, for overall command of Rampart,” Jefferson replied. “I’ve received nothing but glowing endorsements from the Pentagon on his nomination, and I recommend his appointment wholeheartedly. I would also like to nominate the deputy director of Customs and Border Protection, Special Agent George Trujillo, to be deputy commander of Rampart. I think this combination of a military commander and a Border Patrol deputy brings the right mix of experience and places the proper emphasis on the mission. General Lopez will report directly to me.”

“Agreed,” the President said. “I want to speak with both men as soon as possible. Set it up, Thomas.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Kinsly responded.

He looked at Jefferson. “Ray, you said this was a cultural problem that escalated into an economic and then a national security problem. What do you mean?”

“Sir, the basic problem with illegal immigration is much more than Mexicans freely crossing the border looking for work,” Jefferson replied. “It has to do with the perception—many Mexicans would say the ‘reality’—that the United States went to war with Mexico and took their land as a result of the Mexican-American War. In essence, the western half of the United States really belongs to Mexico.”

“Are you talking about the Texas Revolution, Jefferson,” Kinsly interjected, “as in the battle of the Alamo?”

“No, sir. The Mexican-American War was from 1846 to 1848, following the War of Texas Independence,” Jefferson replied. “The Mexican-American War was America’s first conflict fought outside its own borders. We accused Mexico of invading and occupying the United States after the Texas Revolution and we went to war. We ended up with territory that makes up most of the states in the southwest United States—Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and California: the border states.”

“So Mexico thinks those states still belong to Mexico? That’s why they don’t see anything wrong with crossing our borders like they do?”

“Some Mexicans do claim that the border states still belong to Mexico, sir—historically, insurrections and guerrilla attacks have taken place to try to capture or force a state to secede, such as the attacks by Pancho Villa in the early 1900s,” Jefferson said. “Some firebrands in Mexico will never forget the American invasion of Veracruz by General Pershing during the punitive wars—it’s a million times worse than what many Iraqis feel about America going to war to force ‘regime change’ there.

“But the point is that the region is culturally and historically Hispanic, and it will always be so,” Jefferson went on. “The borders are artificial, arbitrary, and in most areas not even marked or in any way delineated—for many Mexicans there is no border, in every sense of the word. Most border towns look, sound, and feel more like Mexican towns than American. In addition, the Hispanic population is growing faster than the white population—Hispanics are no longer a minority in California, for example. Anti-immigrant activities will never be popular in that region.”

“This is very entertaining, Jefferson, but this is the twenty-first century, and all of that is practically ancient history,” Kinsly said. “Besides, if I’m not mistaken, we paid for the land we took in that war, did we not? We didn’t steal it—we bought it.”

“Most Mexican nationalists consider that blood money, sir—in any case, most of the money went back to the U.S. to pay war reparations,” Jefferson said. “Part of the problem in dealing with illegal immigration is the cultural undercurrent running through this region—any government activities against Mexicans will be seen as an attack against Mexican culture and heritage, not just against illegal migrants or terrorists.”

“I’m impressed, Sergeant Major,” the President said. “You exhibit quite a detailed knowledge of the history and origins of the problems down there.”

“Thank you, sir. I studied up on it as part of the planning process for Operation Rampart, and brushed up on it after learning about the attacks on the Border Patrol agents last night.”

“To me, you sound like that nutcase who makes those videotapes that air every now and then…what’s his name…?”

“Veracruz. Comandante Veracruz,” Jefferson said. “Named after the Battle of Veracruz, the largest and deadliest U.S. Army battle before the Civil War. It was also America’s first amphibious invasion—twelve thousand soldiers landed on the beach in Veracruz, Mexico, in less than one day. Major General Winfield Scott had the city outnumbered four to one but Scott still refused to negotiate terms of surrender. The Army blasted the city continuously for twelve days. It was a great victory for America but was considered a disgrace and humiliation to Mexico.”

“It almost sounds like you’re sympathetic to the Mexicans, Sergeant,” Kinsly added.

Jefferson turned his whole body toward Kinsly and gave him a look that made little hairs on the back of the Chief of Staff’s neck stand up; Kinsly tried to regain his composure but found his throat had turned completely dry in the blink of an eye. Jefferson’s expression was clear: you are my immediate supervisor, but if I don’t get the simplest sign of respect due me, I’ll rip your head off your pencil-thin neck and shit down your throat.

“Do not,” Jefferson began in a voice that was more like a growl, “confuse analysis with sympathy, Mr. Kinsly. It’s essential to study the enemy personality, composition, terrain, logistics, and tactical situation in order to identify the enemy’s center of gravity and compose a plan of action. Basic combat strategy.” He took one step toward the Chief of Staff, impaling him with his eyes. “I’d be happy to meet in your office, one on one, any time, to discuss it further. Sir.”

The President found his own throat a little dry after watching Jefferson putting Kinsly in his place, and he took a sip of coffee before speaking. “Now it’s the ‘enemy’ we’re talking about, Sergeant Major?” the President asked.

“It is if you tell me it is, sir, yes,” Jefferson said. “As I said, I believe there’s a military solution to the illegal immigration situation, and I’m prepared to implement it whenever I’m given the order. However, I’m pointing out the inherent difficulties created by the historical, anthropological, and cultural situation. We could very well win every battle and lose the war.”

“Why?”

“This Veracruz guy is a known drug smuggler, sir, but he has enormous popularity all around the world for the Mexican cause. He represents a militant backlash to anti-immigration sentiment that’s growing in the United States, fueled by guys like Bob O’Rourke. Veracruz could start an uprising among the migrants in America.”

“An uprising? That’s ridiculous,” Kinsly said. “The Mexicans are here to work and earn money for themselves and their families, not revolt against America. Besides, who is this Veracruz guy? Is he a general? What army does he command?”

“His audience can turn into his army if we’re not careful,” Jefferson said. “Remember that there are an estimated ten million illegal immigrants in America today, at least a million more enter every year, and over a third of all the live births in the southwest U.S. are children of illegal immigrants. If even ten percent of them decide it’s time to listen to ‘Comandante Veracruz’ and fight, he’d have an army twice as large as Mexico’s itself. He shouldn’t be underestimated.”