Edge of Battle

CHAPTER 2

CAJON JUNCTION, CALIFORNIA

THE NEXT MORNING

Any business consultant would have told them what they already knew: it was the perfect place for an enterprise such as theirs. The area featured ready access to transportation outlets such as Interstate 15, the major freeway artery between Las Vegas and Los Angeles, which made transporting both raw materials and finished product quick, easy, and secure; it was on the edge of the Mojave Desert where land was cheap, but also at the edge of the San Bernardino National Forest so it didn’t seem as if they were actually in the desert; and they had ready access to over ten million potential customers, without having to directly compete against the hundreds of other manufacturers scattered around the Los Angeles megalopolis.

Of course, their real market was Los Angeles, but they chose to locate in San Bernardino County instead—along with going up against the competition, they would have to go up against the infinitely better-funded and-organized Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department rather than the much smaller San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department. One had to balance customer service, marketing, and location of facilities with the competition factor, and their competition was not only the other manufacturers, but law enforcement.

This was Ernesto Fuerza’s pride and joy—one of the largest and most successful methamphetamine labs in southern California. Mostly built on trucks and trailers for easy portability and concealment, the lab produced almost a hundred kilos a day of crystal meth, or “speed,” worth almost a hundred thousand dollars; mixed with cheap fillers and sold on the street, the drug could be worth ten to twenty times that amount.

The best part was that it was far less expensive for Fuerza to manufacture meth in the United States than many of his competitors because he received the raw materials from Mexico rather than from the United States, where controls on the sale of the compounds needed to make meth were far less stringent. The same smuggling networks that allowed Ernesto Fuerza to bring hundreds of illegal immigrants a month to the United States also allowed him to import tons of epinephrine, hydrochloric acid, caustic soda, and chlorine gas to his southern California mobile labs for very little cost and almost total security.

Like any successful business owner, it was important for Fuerza to personally oversee his operation, let his employees see the boss regularly on the job site, take a look at the books, inspect the facilities and product, question his staff, and hand out punishment and rewards, and that’s what Fuerza was doing that morning…when they received an unexpected visitor.

As always, the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Methamphetamine Interdiction Tactical Team swept in with black armored Humvees with lights and sirens on. Deputies on foot wearing black fatigues, ballistic helmets, and bulletproof vests led captured lookouts into the compound at gunpoint, and all of the lab workers were quickly rounded up, cuffed with nylon handcuffs, and secured in the middle of the compound. The deputies were especially rough on Fuerza himself, hog-tying, blindfolding, and gagging him and throwing him facedown in the dirt in front of his workers.

“Ernesto, you must be working your men too hard,” said Sergeant Ed Nuñez, commander of the Methamphetamine Interdiction Tactical Team. “My men found your security guys fast asleep.” He looked around at the trailers and trucks and shook his head. “Two tractor-trailers here instead of just one, Ernesto? You didn’t tell me you are using two labs now. You broke the rules, Ernesto, and it’s going to cost you. You’re under arrest. Get him out of here.” Fuerza was pulled up by his arms and dragged across the compound to Nuñez’s Humvee. Just before being thrown into the backseat, Nuñez landed a fierce right cross on Fuerza’s left jaw, causing the smuggler to spin around like a top and slam against the vehicle, with a noticeable spot of blood growing on the outside of the hood covering his head.

Once inside the vehicle, Nuñez removed his helmet, balaclava, and gloves and lit up a cigarette, leaving Fuerza in the backseat still bound and gagged. “I hope for your sake that one of those tractor-trailers is empty, Ernesto, because I’m going to have to confiscate one of them, and I’d hate for you to lose an entire mobile lab. That would be bad for both of our businesses.” He took a deep drag, then removed the hood and gag, leaving the rest of the bindings intact. “What the fuck, Ernesto? We agreed you could keep operating as long as you tossed me a few kilos of product and a few rival smugglers every now and then, and as long as you didn’t get too greedy and try to expand. What’s the matter with you?”

“Listen to me, Nuñez,” Fuerza said. Fuerza was tall, in his late thirties, with long dark hair secured with his signature black and white Middle Eastern–looking “chain-link” bandanna, a long goatee, sunglasses, and wiry features. He moved fluidly and silently—obviously a result of extensive military training. “I might have a deal going that will greatly expand my distribution. I am not trying to screw you, I swear—I am trying to make us both rich…”

“I told you before, ‘Comandante,’ that I don’t want rich and powerful cookers and dealers in this county—I want everybody kept small time so they don’t attract attention from the state or the feds,” Nuñez said. “Money makes you cookers greedy and stupid, and that hurts everyone. Now you’re going to surrender one of those trucks and a couple of your men to me.”

Fuerza nodded, looking dejected and defeated. “Talvez,” he said. “Take the trailers then. Just don’t take my delivery truck, okay? That is important to my business. And don’t run no computer checks.”

“That’s not your call, Ernesto,” Nuñez said, giving the Mexican a mischievous grin. “I’ll need a contract tow company to take the trailers, and I don’t want any outside eyes back-checking my report, so I’ll take the delivery truck instead.”

“Nuñez, I ask you, do not take my delivery truck, please…”

“Sorry, Fuerza. Maybe next time you’ll play straight with me. Stay here until I have your men in the paddy wagon, and then I’ll let you ‘escape.’”

“You greedy bastard. I told you, I have a deal going that will make this lab setup look like a child’s chemistry set. I could use your help.”

“Tell me what this deal is about.”

“I got me an army, Nuñez,” Fuerza said. “I got me some good fighters, real pros. They…”

“More of your pansy Mexican stoners, ‘Comandante’? No thanks.”

“No, not the Rural Defense Corps—these guys are for real. No hassles for you at all. We will not stay in San Bernardino County—we just need safe passage for these guys when I bring them across.”

“Pros, huh? Who are they?”

“You do not want to know who they are, Nuñez,” Fuerza said. “They will take over security and enforcement for my network. All you and your guys need to do is let them through when I tell you they are coming.”

Nuñez thought for a moment; then: “Okay, Ernesto. But I’m raising my fee to twenty thousand a week.”

“Twenty thousand? You do less work for more money?”

“You think it’s easy or cheap to explain to the bosses how over a million dollars’ worth of Mexican crank gets discovered in Los Angeles, Riverside, and Imperial Counties every month, but not in San Bernardino County?” Nuñez asked angrily. “There’s a lot more than just my team involved in this, Fuerza—everybody from the state narcotics control bureau to the DA to the fucking newspaper reporters have their hands out. It’s going to cost you big to go big-time.”

“I tell you, Nuñez, back off, and there will be plenty of money for all of us.”

“Twenty thousand a week, starting now,” Nuñez insisted. “Maybe that’ll take care of this sudden urge to expand your operation. Take it, or I’ll confiscate more than just the damned truck.”

“Okay, okay, I will pay,” Fuerza said. “But please, do not go near the delivery truck, and tell your deputies to stay off the computer.”

“Stop whining about that truck, Ernesto,” Nuñez said. “Be thankful I’m not impounding everything here and tossing your sorry stupid ass into jail. Now shut up and stay put until I come for you.” Fuerza plopped back on the hard bench seat of the sheriff’s department Humvee and waited.

It did not take long. Nuñez returned a few moments later: “What the hell is going on, Fuerza? We just ran the plates on your truck for wants and warrants, and the whole fucking world exploded on us! Were you involved in some sort of border incident down in Imperial County?”

“I do not know nothing about any border incident, Nuñez. I have been here for…”

“Bullshit, Fuerza. You’re going down big-time, jerkoff. You should have told me what you’re involved with when I first nabbed you. This whole area will be swarming with feds in an hour—the computer reported the tag check to every law enforcement agency on the damned planet. You’ll be lucky if you just end up with life in a federal prison. It’s out of my hands now, asshole.” He disappeared again, shouting, “Bag up any cash and product you see before the damned feds get here, boys. We’re going to lose this crime scene in just a few minutes, and then we’ll be sucking hind tit as usual. Search that truck good and…”

The gunfight lasted less than a minute. Fuerza heard and felt a few heavy-caliber bullets ricocheting off the Humvee, and he hunkered down on the floor until it was over, then sat up and shouted, “Coronel, aquí.”

A few moments later, the door of the Humvee opened up, and Yegor Zakharov appeared, aiming a pistol inside the vehicle. He glared angrily at Fuerza. “You drove us to an ambush with the police?” Zakharov shouted. “I should kill your ass right now!”

“It was a shakedown, Colonel—that deputy is even more crooked and greedy than you,” Fuerza said. He turned around, and Zakharov cut off the plastic handcuffs. “Usually a few thousand dollars and some lab equipment and empty chemical drums satisfies him, but he was looking for more this time.”

“What happened to your security? Don’t you have anyone guarding this damned place?”

“We can talk about that later, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “Right now, I suggest we collect all the money, weapons, and product we can and get out of here before the real police arrive.”

OVER SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

THE NEXT DAY

The shadow flitted across the hard-baked sand in an instant, so quickly that no one really noticed it. Eyes seared by the sun, stinging from sand, salt, and sweat, it was not hard to understand. Most eyes were concentrating on the path ahead, not on the sky. A false step could result in a twisted ankle or nasty fall, and that would delay everyone. Besides, shadows from birds flying overhead were common—usually the birds were buzzards or California condors, large carrion birds looking for animals in distress below for their afternoon meal. Humans were not on their preferred menu, but if one fell and looked as if it was dead or incapacitated, they would circle overhead and wait patiently until it died all the same.

This time, however, the shadow overhead was not from a living animal, although even from close-up it resembled a very large Canada goose. It moved slowly, no more than ten to fifteen knots depending on the winds, flying just five hundred feet above ground. It had very long thin wings with ducted turboprop engines underneath, a long neck, a large bulbous body that was not as long as the wingspan, and a broad flat tail.

The group of fifteen Mexicans crossing the desert stopped for a water and pee break, and it was then that one of the men noticed the shadow, looked up, and saw the flying object overhead. “What is it?” the man asked.

“Shh! ¡Escuche!” the coyote leader ordered. Now they could hear the faint, low, throaty sound of the device’s small jet engine, and that made everyone in the group upset. “It is a reconnaissance aircraft, probably Border Patrol.”

“They will catch us for sure!”

“Maybe,” the leader said. He unslung his backpack and quickly pulled out a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun. “But they’ll have one less eye in the sky to bother us the next time we cross.” He found it child’s play to track the spy plane because it was moving so slowly, and he squeezed off a shot.

“You fool! They will hear you!” one of the other coyotes complained.

“We are twenty miles from the nearest road and thirty miles to the nearest town—no one will hear this small rifle,” the shooter said. He fired again, then reloaded.

“That little popgun isn’t going to hit it from this distance, you idiot!” one of the pollos shouted. But just then the little aircraft turned sharply to the north and started to fly away.

“Not going to hit it, eh?” the coyote said happily. “Too bad it got away—I really wanted to see that thing come spinning out of the sky, like a wounded duck,” he said gleefully. “Let’s get moving. The more distance we can put between us and this spot, the…”

“¿Cuál es ése?” one of the pollos suddenly exclaimed. The coyote looked in the direction of the migrant’s outstretched arm. There, at the top of a small rise about a hundred yards before them, was a…well, it was impossible to tell what it was. It resembled some sort of child’s toy robot, with broad chest and shoulders, bulbous head, slim waist, and large metallic arms and legs, but it was about nine or ten feet tall. It had appeared out of nowhere—none of the sparse vegetation for miles around could have possibly hidden that thing.

One of the pollos unslung his backpack and reached inside it, but another stopped him. “No, don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t you recognize it? I saw it on TV, back during the attacks on Houston and Washington. Usted no puede matarle.” The first man took his hand out of the backpack but kept it close.

“Whatever it is, let’s get away from it,” the coyote said. But as they moved a little farther east to try to get around it, the robot thing moved with them—it made no move to walk toward them, but simply shadowed their movements. “It’s moving with us, but it’s not making any attempt to stop us. Maybe it doesn’t belong to the Border Patrol?”

“¿Qué hacemos?” one of the migrants asked worriedly.

The coyote thought for a moment; then: “We split up,” he said. “There’s only one of it—it can’t follow us all. Up ahead about three kilometers is a gully. Follow the gully toward those mountains until you come to a concrete alcantarilla. Stay out of sight until we meet up with you.”

“What about our pickup?” one of the men asked. “You had better not call him off, asshole…!”

“We have a deal, dammit. Just do as I say. Now split up!” The pollos did as they were told, breaking up into two-and three-man teams and fanning out. The smuggler chambered a round in his rifle and approached the robot, shouting, “Hey, you! What are you? What do you want?”

“No tire en el avión,” the robot said in a machine-synthesized male voice.

That was bad—the spy plane was apparently beaming down its images to this contraption, because the robot knew that he had fired on it. “Fine, fine. I won’t fire on your spy plane anymore, prometo. Now leave us alone.”

“What is your name?” the robot asked in Spanish.

“Are you the police? Border Patrol?”

“No. But the Border Patrol is watching you. What is your name?”

“How do I know the Border Patrol is watching?” the coyote asked. “I don’t have to tell you shit.” He leveled the shotgun at the robot. “Now leave us alone, ojete!”

“That’s Martín Alvarez,” Senior Patrol Agent Albert Spinelli said, watching the video feed on a laptop computer broadcast via satellite from the Cybernetic Infantry Device unit on the scene. They were outdoors at a vacant area adjacent to Runway 27 Left at Gillespie Field near El Cajon, California, standing beside a Humvee with a small satellite dish on top. The entire area north of the parallel runways, including the runways themselves, had been closed off to all air traffic, and a small encampment had been set up with two Humvees, a satellite dish, and a large thirty-foot-long, ten-foot-high nylon net strung across Runway 27 Left to recover the Gullwing unmanned reconnaissance aircraft. “No surprise seeing him in this area.” Spinelli definitely appeared uncomfortable at watching this group of illegals crossing the border near Campo, California, just east of the steel security fence that stretched ten miles either side of the Potrero-Tecate border crossing station.

“The bastard took a shot at my UAV,” Dr. Ariadna Vega, deputy commander and chief engineer of Task Force TALON, a joint military–Federal Bureau of Investigation antiterrorist strike force, said in a surprised, worrisome voice. She too looked extremely uncomfortable watching this encounter, although for decidedly different reasons.

The Border Patrol agent looked at Vega suspiciously. “Alvarez is small time, usually nonviolent,” Spinelli said. “First time I’ve ever heard of him using a weapon. He’s usually too drunk or stoned to even walk straight, let alone shoot straight.”

“There’s something strange about those migrants,” Ariadna remarked.

“What?”

“They look…I don’t know, pretty well organized, like they’re used to walking out in the middle of nowhere in the desert,” Ari said.

“The migrant farmworkers are already pretty tough hombres to do the kind of work they do,” Spinelli said. “A lot of the migrants have made this trip dozens of times, and you have to be tough to survive it.” He looked at Vega again, trying to guess what was wrong with her expression. “Don’t worry—after the shootings at Blythe, we’ll be on guard for any violent characters.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Our patrol will be there in twenty minutes,” Spinelli replied. “We’ll pick them up, drive them back here, and give them all a checkup. We have a group of volunteer nurses and paramedics and a volunteer doctor on call who’ll help us out. Then they’ll be processed. We’ll identify them the best we can and weed out the criminals and the violent ones. Any wanted suspects are processed by the Departments of State and Justice for extradition. The Mexicans will be deported across the border; the OTMs—other than Mexicans—will be deported after a hearing. If they have any outstanding warrants, either in the U.S. or with any other Interpol reporting agencies, they’ll be detained until they can be transferred to the proper authorities. We’re seeing more and more of them with lengthy criminal records.”

“The others will get deported?”

“Yep. They’ll be bused across the border from San Diego to a Mexican processing center in Tijuana or Mexicali.” He thought for a moment, then went on: “Alvarez, the guy with the shotgun, concerns me. Smugglers with guns are getting more and more common on the border, and we want to clamp down on that hard and fast. I think Alverez is wanted in Tamaulipas State on suspicion of killing a Mexican federale. I want him for questioning. Have your guy…robot…CID unit, whatever you call him, hold that man until our agents arrive.”

“We can’t,” Ariadna said. “We’re prohibited from making an arrest. We’re out here to observe and report, nothing more.”

“I can authorize him to pass along an order from me to stay where he is until my agents arrive,” Spinelli said. “I’ll be the agent in charge. You’ll just…”

“We can’t get involved, Agent Spinelli—that’s final,” Ariadna said resolutely. She touched the comm button: “CID One, you are authorized only to keep the subjects in sight and report their position and movement. You may not detain or interfere with them in any way. Is that clear? Acknowledge.”

“Received and understood, Ari,” U.S. Army Sergeant First Class Harry Dodd, piloting CID One, responded.

“That guy took a shot at your recon plane, Dr. Vega—you saw it, we all saw it,” Spinelli said. “That’s a federal violation for sure. Plus he’s wanted in Mexico on a murder charge. You can’t just let him go.”

“Task Force TALON is not the Border Patrol, Agent Spinelli—we’re not here to do your job for you,” Ariadna said. “We’re here simply on National Security Adviser Jefferson’s suggestion.”

“But…”

“As far as you’re concerned, Agent Spinelli, we’re nature lovers out here on a stroll to take pictures of the flora and fauna,” she interrupted. “CID One, continue your assigned patrol.”

“Roger.” It was only a few minutes later when Dodd radioed back: “I’m picking up a vehicle approaching—a small Ford van, no license plates…subject Alvarez is waving it down. Looks like a rendezvous.”

“You can’t let him get away, Dr. Vega,” Spinelli said. “Alvarez just walked across the border. That’s illegal. You’ve got to stop him.” But Ariadna said nothing.

“Ari? What should I do?”

“Continue your patrol, CID One,” Ariadna replied. “Observe and report.”

There was a slight pause; then: “O-kay, Ari. The first subject has made contact with the driver of the van…he’s now waving at the other subjects…they’re running toward the van. Looks like they’re all going to get in.”

“At least get up there and see who the driver is, Sergeant!” Spinelli exclaimed. Dodd trotted over to the van, but the driver and a man in the front passenger seat had their faces well hidden with hats and sunglasses. “The other guy has a gun!” Spinelli pointed out excitedly. “I saw a submachine gun in his lap! That’s another federal violation! You can’t let them get away!”

“Ari…?”

“Continue to observe and report, Sergeant,” Ariadna repeated stonily. Spinelli banged a hand on the console and muttered an expletive. Moments later they watched as the van sped away.

“Want me to follow it, Ari?” Dodd asked.

“Yes! Follow it!” Spinelli shouted. “We might be able to intercept him before he reaches the highway.”

“Negative. Resume your patrol, Harry.”

“What is with you, Vega?” Spinelli exploded as he watched the van speed away through the video datalink. “I thought you were here to help us! Instead, you just let a wanted criminal get away!”

“My orders are to send one CID unit and a Gullwing UAV out to this area, patrol for ten hours over varied terrain and operating conditions in both day and night, and report back to Major Richter and Sergeant Major Jefferson,” Ariadna said curtly. “I don’t much care what you thought.”

Spinelli was ready to continue arguing with her, but instead he looked at her and nodded his head knowingly. “Oh, I get it now. What is it, Vega—afraid ‘your people’ are going to get persecuted by the big bad federales?”

Vega whirled around and pushed Spinelli hard in his chest with two hands. “Kiss my ass, Spinelli!” she shouted.

“I seem to have hit a nerve here, eh, Vega?” Spinelli smirked. “I run into that all the time. Most of the Border Patrol’s recruits are Hispanic because it doesn’t cost as much to teach them Spanish and they blend in with the border area population better. But the downside is that sometimes they don’t want to catch the illegals as bad as others in the Border Patrol do. Some even have family members that are illegals, and they’re afraid they’re going to catch a relative or friend of a relative if they do their job well enough. They’re good agents, but they let their heritage get in the way of their duty. They don’t last very long in the service. After all, they’re just wetbacks in uniform.”

Ariadna’s eyes blazed, and others in the room watching this interchange thought she was going to rush at him again. Instead, she hit the comm button on the console: “Harry, bring it in,” she ordered. “The exercise is over.” The Border Patrol supervisor smirked again. “And wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you, Spinelli.”

“Sí, señorita,” Spinelli said. Ariadna glared at him but said nothing. It took only a few minutes for her to pack up her gear. “You come back when you’re ready to do some real border security work, Doctor. Until then, the ghosts of the four Border Patrol agents who were killed the other day will thank you and your precious Mexican heritage to stay the hell out of our way.”

MISSION VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

TWO DAYS LATER

The memorial service for the four slain Border Patrol agents was held at Qualcomm Stadium, just outside San Diego, where more than fifty thousand attendees witnessed one of the largest gatherings of law enforcement officers from around the world ever—over three thousand men and women in uniform, some from as far away as South Africa, Australia, and Japan, assembled on the field to pay respects to the fallen agents. The caskets were brought into the stadium by simple wooden one-horse wagons, emblematic of the Border Patrol’s frontier heritage, led by a company of one hundred bagpipers that filled the air with an awful yet stirring dirge.

The President of the United States, Samuel Conrad, stood at the podium before the four caskets and the thousands looking on. He took his prepared notes out of a breast pocket, looked at them briefly, then put them away. The audience was completely still—even the horses that drew the caissons seemed suddenly frozen in place.

“My staff prepared a eulogy in which I was going to talk about the dedication and professionalism of Border Agents Caufield, Tighe, Purdy, and Estaban,” the President began, his voice cracking. “But I can’t read it. I didn’t know these men. My words might bring some comfort, coming from the President, but they’d be meaningless. These men were not my friends. They were public servants, guardians, protectors, law enforcement agents, and I am the President of the United States. Their bravery, professionalism, and dedication to duty have already been attested to by the men and women who knew them. I know that being a Border Patrol agent is a mostly lonely, difficult, and thankless job; unfortunately, it is also becoming a more dangerous one. They knew this, and still they went out into the deserts and did their duty. I thank these men and their families on behalf of our nation for their service, and I recognize that, ultimately, I am responsible for their deaths. I am their boss, their commander in chief in a sense, and I failed to adequately give them all the tools they needed to do their jobs.

“I know my words at this time and place probably don’t mean much to you right now, but that’s all I have to offer you, and I hope you’ll accept them,” the President went on, a tear rolling unbidden yet unchecked down his cheek. “I promise you that the deaths of these four fine men will not go unavenged. I promise I will act immediately to hunt down the killers and punish them. I further promise to do everything within my powers to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” With that, the President left the dais, shook hands and spoke a few words to each of the dead officer’s family members, and departed the stadium with an angry, taunt-jawed expression. The President’s aides and advisers had to scramble to keep up with him.

The President, Secretary of Homeland Security Jeffrey Lemke, and Customs and Border Protection Director James Abernathy were flown from the stadium by helicopter to March Air Reserve Base in Riverside, then traveled by motorcade to the Domestic Air Interdiction Coordination Center, the joint Federal Air Administration–Customs Service–Air Force radar surveillance facility. After meeting with the facility director and his staff and getting a brief tour of the facility, they were led into a secure conference room, where a number of persons were waiting for them to arrive.

The first to address the audience was National Security Adviser Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson, who was already on hand when the President arrived. “Welcome, Mr. President, to this border security operational briefing,” he began. “This briefing is classified top secret, no foreign nationals, sensitive sources and methods involved, and the room is secure.

“This briefing concerns Operation Rampart. As directed by the President in Executive Order 07-23, Operation Rampart’s mission is the integration of military, paramilitary, government, and civil patrol and law enforcement agencies to completely secure the southern borders of the United States from illegal intrusion.

“According to my staff, sir, based on arrests per sector, agents per sector, local law enforcement statistics, and patrol patterns in each sector, we estimate that approximately seven hundred and eighty thousand persons per year successfully cross the southern borders at other than legal points of entry,” Jefferson went on. “Approximately one percent of those that cross the border are arrested. According to Customs and Border Protection statistics and reports, the number of illegal border crossings is rising approximately two percent a year. In addition, illegals are becoming more desperate and more violent because of the economic situation in their home countries and the sophistication of surveillance in more populated areas.

“Operation Rampart seeks to reduce the number of illegal border crossings by increasing surveillance, detection, and apprehension of illegal migrants through the use of more sophisticated surveillance technology and rapid reaction by high-speed aircraft and vehicles. In other words, sir, Operation Rampart will turn the borders of the United States into a true active military security zone that will prevent anyone from crossing the borders except at designated crossing points. It will also improve detection and apprehension of illegal aliens already in the country, improve the Department of Homeland Security’s ability to protect and defend the United States from all manner of enemy or criminal activity, while at the same time offering opportunities for foreign workers to earn a decent wage and improve their way of life in this country.”

“I’ve read your proposal, Sergeant Major Jefferson,” Secretary of Homeland Security Jeffrey Lemke said. The former director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was short and thin but tough-looking and serious. Following the shakeup in the Cabinet after the revelation that the former White House National Security Adviser Robert Chamberlain had financed and engineered several attacks against oil company facilities around the world, including a nuclear explosion near Houston, Texas, Lemke was going to resign along with many other government and Cabinet officials but was instead elevated to Secretary of Homeland Security. Lemke felt his distrust for Chamberlain was vindicated by his actions, and he had a natural skepticism of any projects or programs coming out of the National Security Adviser’s office. “Although I’m intrigued by some aspects of it, my staff and bureau directors have serious reservations about the plan as a whole. This needs to be studied further.” He glanced over at one of the other persons on the dais. “And the presence of Major Jason Richter of Task Force TALON is ominous to say the least. While we all applaud the major’s heroic victories against the Consortium, I don’t think border security is an area where TALON should get involved.”

Jefferson turned to Richter, who stepped out to the lectern. He was dressed in pixilated desert battle dress uniform, including sand-gray boots, and a web belt with an empty pistol holster. Richter was tall and handsome, but seemed uncomfortably young, even for a major in the modern U.S. Army, especially standing beside Jefferson. His hair was dark and “high and tight,” his uniform had only his name, rank, and “U.S. ARMY” tags, and he had a black beret tucked into his web belt. He stood rather uneasily, shuffling slightly from foot to foot, not nervous but as if fighting off surges of energy coursing through his body.

“First off, Mr. Secretary,” Richter began, “I would like to extend my condolences to you and your department on behalf of TALON on your tragic loss at Blythe.”

“Thank you, Major,” Jeffrey Lemke said woodenly. “But frankly, this Operation Rampart and the way it’s being cobbled together with such short notice is not making me feel much better; I’m also very concerned about Task Force TALON’s involvement in this. But please continue.”

“TALON is involved because I believe the Consortium is behind that attack against the Border Patrol agents at Blythe, sir.”

“I wasn’t briefed on that,” Lemke said.

“It’s my opinion only, sir,” Jason said. “But we have had three incidents in less than a week with migrants carrying automatic weapons, something they rarely if ever did before the Consortium attacks. According to FBI Director DeLaine, most of the other known terror, insurgency, and supremacy groups in the U.S. went to ground during the Consortium attacks and have not really resurfaced following the Washington confrontation because of stepped-up security—yet more and more migrants are traveling with heavy weaponry. I think Yegor Zakharov is orchestrating these cross-border incidents, possibly to bring fighters and weapons into the U.S. to carry out more attacks. He’s a wounded animal, and those are the most dangerous.”

“I tend to agree with the major’s assessment, Mr. President, which is why I recommended putting Task Force TALON on the borders as part of Operation Rampart,” Jefferson interjected. “We can pull Task Force TALON units away from border security duties quickly if needed elsewhere. The CID units’ big advantage, along with their firepower and versatility, is their mobility and deployability.”

The Secretary of Homeland Security was immensely skeptical and made no attempt to hide his doubt; this only encouraged the Chief of Staff’s objections: “We can’t raise the ‘Consortium’ and ‘Zakharov’ warning flags every time there’s a shooting in America,” Kinsly said perturbedly. “Congress will start to lose patience if we cry wolf every few weeks.”

“Then we’ll say that TALON is the best choice because they’re already formed up and can be swung into action fast,” Jefferson said. “We can have four teams ready to go in twenty-four hours, even before the first patrol base is fully constructed.”

Lemke shrugged noncommittally. “The other problem I have is this budget,” he went on, shaking his head in disbelief. “I believe your numbers are gross underestimates. And if you add in administrative and judicial costs, you’re looking at an initial outlay of between six and eight billion dollars to start, and four to five billion dollars a year to maintain it. And that’s before Congress starts tacking on it’s own pet projects to the appropriation bill. I would expect the initial cost of this program to be close to ten billion dollars this year alone and fifty to sixty billion dollars over the next ten years to maintain. That’s more than the entire Bureau of Customs and Border Protection budget! How in the world am I supposed to sell this program to Congress and the American people, Mr. President?”

“Remind them of the four dead agents that are being buried today, Mr. Lemke,” Jefferson responded.

“Excuse me, Mr. Jefferson, but I’m not going to use the dead to justify this—I have too much respect for those men and their families,” Lemke said bitterly. He turned to President Conrad. “Mr. President, we absolutely cannot put robots on the U.S.-Mexico border—folks will think we’re creating some sort of sci-fi prison around the United States! I recognize the invaluable service Major Richter and his team has performed battling terrorists, but using these multimillion-dollar robots to catch migrant farmworkers seems like trying to use a main battle tank to stomp out cockroaches!”

“Secretary Lemke, the equation is simple,” Richter said. “The Bureau of Customs and Border Protection, which is in charge of securing the borders, is completely understaffed and overwhelmed. I estimate it would take at least five thousand new agents on the U.S.-Mexico border alone to even begin to get illegal immigration under control. We can’t afford that. You have just two alternatives: use five thousand National Guard troops—or use Task Force TALON.”

“You think your robots can do the work of five thousand National Guard troops, Major?”

“Combined with advanced surveillance assets—I know they can, sir,” Jason replied. “They can do it better, faster, and cheaper. All I need is the go-ahead and the political support of the administration and I’ll have the U.S.-Mexico border completely secure in twelve months.”

“A three-thousand-mile border—completely secure in just twelve months?” Lemke retorted. “That’s impossible, even with a hundred of your robots.”

“I can do it, sir,” Jason said confidently. “You’ve seen the capabilities of the Cybernetic Infantry Device units in the battle with the Consortium. They’re even more capable now. This is the type of mission best suited for them.”

“I asked the staff to come up with innovative and original ideas for border security, and this certainly fits the bill,” the President said. To Richter, he asked, “How many of these CID units do you have available, Major?”

“Ten, Mr. President,” Jason replied. “I want to use eight for this mission, at least two per base, with two set aside for training, as a spare, and for other contingencies. Our emergency budget and engineering resources should give us another sixteen units on-line by the end of the year.”

“The cost of which hasn’t been factored into this budget,” Lemke said. “This is beginning to get out of control here, Jefferson. You need to rethink this proposal a lot more before presenting it to the Cabinet for approval, and certainly get the congressional leadership involved in the planning.”

There was a strained silence after that; then, the President motioned to Jefferson. “Sergeant Major, continue the briefing, please.”

“A preliminary security evaluation was recently concluded by Major Jason Richter, and he is here to present his findings. Major Richter?”

“Mr. President, Task Force TALON has studied the deployment of the U.S. Border Patrol over the past two days in both day and night operations, and we’ve toured several Border Patrol sector operations centers and observed their operations,” he said. “The current border control system uses a combination of ground and air patrols that deploy out of sector patrol locations, intelligence data collected by Border Patrol agents, twenty-foot-high steel fences erected within fifteen to twenty miles either side of the twenty-five legal border crossing points along the U.S.-Mexico border’s legal crossing points, and underground vibration sensors for the majority of all other areas. Approximately thirty percent of the border has some sort of electronic surveillance or a physical barrier. Of the remaining seventy percent of the border, however, my task force considers surveillance and security nonexistent.”

“I hope the Border Patrol gets an opportunity to respond, sir,” James Abernathy, director of the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection, interjected pointedly.

“Don’t worry, Jim, you’ll get a chance,” Secretary of Homeland Security Lemke said. Under his breath, some of the audience heard him mutter, “I hope.”

“The fences are generally considered effective when properly maintained,” Richter went on, “but it has resulted in driving most illegal border crossings out into isolated, uninhabited regions beyond the fences. In most of these areas there is no fence of any kind marking the border; where private lands are adjacent to the border, there is usually just a typical barbed-wire cattle fence, which is easily crossed or cut down. Illegal migrants regularly do a lot of damage to private and public property in their efforts to make it into the United States.

“The vibration sensors are generally considered effective in detecting movement. When motion is detected, Border Patrol surveillance officers make a best guess on the number of persons detected by the sensors and report this to the on-duty sector duty officer. He then checks the deployment of his sector patrol units. Based on unit availability and the number reported by the sensor operator and other factors such as weather, intelligence data on wanted persons traveling in a certain manner or area, distance to travel, and availability of support units and detention facilities, he or she makes the decision whether or not to deploy patrol units.”

“The bottom line: you can generally see them, but you don’t or can’t always go get them,” the President summarized.

“The major’s analysis barely scratches the surface of the situation, Mr. President,” Abernathy said bitterly. “He can’t possibly make a fair evaluation after only observing our men and women in action for two days.”

“Understood,” the President said. “Continue, Major Richter.”

“It appears to my task force that the problem with border security is mostly due to a lack of resources,” Jason went on. “Simply put, there are simply not enough patrol agents or sensors in the field to cover such a long border. The terrain and climate are two major factors. Most of the border is not well patrolled because it is simply too rugged, too barren, too far from usable roads, or too difficult to operate in for any length of time. Weather conditions are usually extreme: hot, cold, windy, dry, and everything in between, factors that hamper effective patrol operations but won’t deter a determined smuggler or migrant from attempting the crossing.” Jason was happy to see that Abernathy was nodding slightly in agreement. “That concludes my briefing, sir.”

“Thank you, Major Richter,” Jefferson said as he returned to the lectern. “Mr. President, Operation Rampart will achieve its mission objective by utilizing reaction teams composed of unmanned tactical surveillance aircraft with specialized sensors to detect, locate, and track any person or vehicle crossing the borders, combined with fast-reaction ground and air units positioned in numerous locations along the border to stop the intruder and make an arrest. Instead of being deployed from headquarters areas to the border, these reaction teams will be located on the border. Each surveillance base will be spaced approximately ten miles apart, depending on terrain.”

“How many bases are you proposing, Ray?” the President asked.

“Approximately fifty bases, sir,” Jefferson replied.

“Fifty bases?” Lemke asked, astonished. “You want to build fifty air bases along the border?”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson replied. “They are not full-up air bases—they are small bare-base airfields with detention and support facilities. Each surveillance base houses a reaction team composed of an air flight, composed of two long-endurance surveillance airships, three utility helicopters, and field maintenance facilities; a security flight, composed of perimeter, facility, prisoner, and personnel security officers; and a support flight, which takes care of lodging, meals, physical plant, power, water, detention, transportation, and common areas.” Jefferson changed Powerpoint slides on the screen before the audience. “Each base would have about fifty personnel, which are deployed from active, Reserve, or National Guard military bases for a week at a time, once per month. They would…”

“Twenty-five-hundred troops a week?” Lemke exclaimed. “Do we have that many troops?”

“The Army National Guard and Army Reserves have a total of seven hundred and fifty thousand personnel,” Jefferson responded. “Of these, about three hundred thousand are infantry, light mechanized, air cavalry, security, and intelligence-trained, appropriate for this mission. If we use just ten to fifteen thousand of them and rotate them to the Border Patrol mission once a month, we can fulfill the manning requirements. The advantage is that these citizen soldiers will be deployed right here, in the United States, close to home. That is a tremendous cost savings and morale booster. It may also be possible to augment some of these forces with volunteers.” He turned to the President and added, “It’s a substantial mission to undertake, sir, there’s no question. It might mean fewer infantry, support, logistics, and intelligence forces available to augment the active-duty force…”

“Assuming you use each unit just one monthly rotation per year, that means over one hundred thousand troops per year,” Chief of Staff Kinsly pointed out. That’s over a third of all Guard and Reserve units assigned just to border security!” He turned to the President and went on: “That’s major, sir. That’ll send an awfully in-your-face message to the Mexican government, to the Hispanic population, and to civil rights and immigration rights groups.”

“I want to hear about the plan first, Tom,” the President said irritably, “before I hear about potential political problems. One headache at a time, please.”

“I see men and equipment for surveillance and detention,” Secretary of Homeland Security Lemke pointed out, “but nothing for actually stopping anyone from crossing the border. Seems to me you’re not solving the problem here, Sergeant Major—we can see them, but we can’t stop them. Your ten thousand troops per month are only there to support the surveillance stuff—how many more will you need for patrol and apprehension? Or are you just going to rely on the Border Patrol?”

“We can always increase the size of the Border Patrol,” Jefferson responded, “but I have another suggestion: using CID units.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Kinsly moaned.

Jefferson turned to Jason Richter, who stepped back to the lectern: “The CID units have the right capabilities for this mission, sir,” he said. “They’re fast, have better rough terrain capability than Humvees, they can carry a lot of heavy equipment, and they can perform other missions such as search and rescue, medevac, armed intervention…”

“What about your other task force missions, Major?” Jeffrey Lemke asked. “Won’t this slow down your pursuit of the rest of the Consortium? And what exactly will these CID units do?”

“They receive surveillance data from the unmanned aircraft or from ground sensors on anyone observed to cross the border and respond to the location to investigate,” Jefferson said. “If it encounters any illegal migrants, they can detain them until Border Patrol officers arrive to make an arrest.”

“Let’s get to the bottom line, Sergeant Major,” the President interjected. “What’s this plan going to cost?”

“Personnel costs are approximately one hundred thousand dollars per month per base, or one hundred twenty million dollars per year. Total manpower required is approximately twenty-five hundred soldiers rotated among the facilities every week, or a total manpower commitment of ten thousand troops per month, or one billion dollars per year. Cost to operate the ground vehicles is eighty million dollars per year; cost to operate the helicopters and UAVs is approximately eight hundred million dollars per year. We estimate we will have approximately twenty-five thousand detainees in custody in our facilities; they will cost another billion dollars a year to feed, house, and provide support for them. This brings the total cost of this program to approximately three billion dollars a year, plus approximately a billion dollars to build the bases themselves.”

Lemke looked at the briefing slides projected onto the screen before him. “What about these detention facilities, Mr. Jefferson? Assuming your reaction teams work as advertised, what do you propose to do with the detainees you capture?”

“They will be held in detention facilities at each surveillance base until processed, sir,” Jefferson replied. “Each base will have facilities to house two hundred and fifty detainees. We anticipate that detainees will be held a minimum of thirty days until their identities, political status, and criminal records are checked; repeat offenders will be detained for longer periods of time, or transferred to other federal facilities.”

“You’re going to arrest them, Jefferson?” Lemke asked. “Women, children, old men—arrest them just for trying to cross the border, make a better life for themselves, and do work that others won’t do?”

“No, Mr. Secretary—we’re going to arrest them because they broke the law,” Jefferson said. “I did check, sir, and the United States still does have a law against crossing the borders outside of legal border crossing points or ports of entry. It does not mention any extenuating circumstances. There is no age limit, medical qualification, or lawful purpose for doing so except for political asylum: it is still illegal.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Jefferson!” Lemke snapped. “I’m very well aware of the law—I’m the one chosen to enforce it, not you.”

“And I’m very well aware of my duties, Mr. Secretary,” Jefferson shot back. “There is a national security issue here, especially apparent after the murders of the four Border Patrol agents near Blythe.”

“If the attackers were wearing uniforms and helmets,” the President interjected, “it seems to me there would be no question in anyone’s mind that the United States was under attack and that there was a national security deficiency here. Why is there a question now, Jeffrey—because the illegal migrants are old, young, or female?”

“To me, sir, it’s a question of whether someone committing an illegal border crossing is entitled to due process,” Lemke said after an uncomfortable pause, unaccustomed to being queried directly by the President of the United States. “It is assumed, and I think everyone here will agree, that putting the military on the borders by definition means that we’re taking away due process…”

“And I would disagree, Mr. Secretary,” Jefferson interjected. “The military has for many years assisted law enforcement, and it would be no different here. The Bureau of Customs and Border Protection would still be one of the lead agencies involved in Operation Rampart; the military would be in a major support role.”

Lemke held up Jefferson’s presentation outline. “I think the question of who is in charge would be a subject of considerable debate, Sergeant Major Jefferson, since you propose putting a military officer in charge of the operation,” he said. He dropped the outline back on the table and shook his head as if very frustrated and confused. “So your task force finds and detains the migrants crossing the border and you put them in your detention facility. Are they allowed to be bailed out?”

“They are subject to normal criteria for release imposed by a federal judge,” Jefferson replied. “As far as I’m aware, the prevailing criteria are government-issued identification, U.S. resident or resident alien status, a verified U.S. address, and no outstanding wants or warrants. Most illegal migrants would not fall under these criteria and would probably be held without bail or at a higher bond amount.”

“So you’re going to build a hundred of these Guantanamo Bay–like prison facilities right here in the U.S.?” Lemke asked incredulously. “Are they allowed to have legal representation, or do we just allow the International Red Cross to visit them?”

“Who’s being sarcastic now, Secretary Lemke?” Jefferson asked. “I see no reason to withhold legal assistance or representation. They may prefer to waive their right to trial and accept detention rather than risk being held in detention for an unknown number of days until their case comes to trial.”

“So it’s like getting a speeding ticket, eh, Jefferson?” Lemke asked derisively. “Pull ’em over, throw ’em in a camp, and make ’em sign a confession? If they plead guilty they spend a couple weeks in a camp?”

“We feel the loss of income from being detained would provide some measure of deterrent for many migrants, yes, sir.”

“When was the last time you visited a federal detention facility or even a medium-sized county jail, Sergeant Major?” Lemke asked. “You could have hundreds, perhaps thousands, staying there for months, including children—are you prepared to handle that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then they spend a couple weeks in a camp—where, by the way, their living conditions might be markedly better than their conditions either in Mexico or on a farm—and then what? Your only option is to deport them, and everyone knows that becomes a simple revolving door—they’ll try to make another border crossing as soon as they’re able. You took away all those weeks of income, so they’ll be even more hard-pressed to try a crossing again. You’ll have to expend the time, energy, manpower, and money into recapturing the same immigrant over and over again.”

“First of all, Secretary Lemke: the mere fact that this program will be difficult, expensive, and manpower-intensive shouldn’t be the major disqualifying factor,” Jefferson said. “Government’s duty is to uphold the law and protect the citizens—as far as I’m aware, how much such duties cost has never been a criteria for whether or not it should be done.”

“It’s a criteria if Congress says it is, Sergeant Major,” Lemke pointed out.

“Second: we have technology that may allow us to help in identification,” Jefferson went on. “Major Richter?”

Jason stood up, then held up an oblong pill the size of a large vitamin tablet. “It’s called NIS, pronounced ‘nice’—nanotransponder identification system.”

“Cute name—obviously trying to make it sound pleasant and peaceful,” Lemke said, chuckling. He motioned to Richter, who brought the device over so Lemke could examine it. “What is it…a suppository?” The audience broke out in strained laughter. “Pardon me, Major, but I think getting rid of that won’t be much of a problem.”

“Not a suppository, sir—a system that implants thousands of tiny microtransceivers throughout the body,” Major Richter explained. “The transceivers are powered by the human body itself and emit an identification signal when interrogated by another transmitter, much the same as an aircraft transponder transmits the aircraft altitude when interrogated by air traffic control radar. The cells last for years and can’t be shut down by the body’s normal immunological system.”

“You have got to be kidding me, Major Richter,” Jeffrey Lemke said, looking at the tablet in amazement, then putting it down on the table in front of him as if worried that the little robotic cells could slip under his skin and invade his body. “You actually expect someone to swallow one of those things?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Jason said. “In fact, I already have.”

“What…?”

“Two days ago, when I was first briefed by Sergeant Major Jefferson that I’d be giving this briefing,” Jason said. Ariadna Vega walked up, carrying a device that resembled a short baseball bat, and pressed a button. After a short wait, one of the overhead electronic screens presented a list of information. “Dr. Vega is demonstrating a prototype NIS scanner,” Jason explained. “The scanner is sending out a coded digital interrogation signal, and the NIS devices respond with their individual code number. The NIS system can then call up information on the person.”

“Why are there three lines of information on you, Major?”

“Because there are three persons within range of the scanner—approximate range is about two miles—with active NIS cells: myself, Dr. Vega, and Sergeant Major Jefferson.”

“You actually swallowed one of those things, Jefferson?” Lemke asked incredulously.

“Of course I did,” Jefferson said. “I wouldn’t ask anyone to do anything I wouldn’t be willing to do myself. It’s perfectly harmless; the interrogation codes can be changed remotely in case the code is compromised; the NIS transmissions are encoded; and unless they’re being interrogated, the NIS cells are completely dormant. The strength of the coded NIS reply signal is high enough to possibly cause cardiac arrhythmias if the interrogator is left on continuously for long periods of time, more than one or two hours. But activating the scanner for just a few seconds causes every NIS cell within a couple miles or so to respond, and their positions can be recorded and plotted immediately—there’s no need to continuously broadcast an interrogation signal.”

“How do you get rid of them?”

“The transmitters are quiet unless interrogated by a specific coded signal, so if the interrogator is shut off the cells are dormant,” Jason replied. “The cells themselves are carried away by normal bodily functions at different rates depending on where they implant themselves and how active they are. The average age of a NIS cell itself is around ten years, but the body would probably flush out all of the cells within three to five years. They can probably be destroyed by certain chemicals or radiation, but the level of exposure necessary to kill every NIS cell would probably kill the person too.”

“This…this is pretty unbelievable,” Lemke said, shaking his head. “Why don’t you just fingerprint and photograph the migrants when you capture them? Why use these nanotransponder things at all?”

“Fingerprinting someone doesn’t do any good if they manage to sneak back into the country, or if we decide to implement a bracero guest worker program where legal migrant workers might intermingle with illegals,” Jefferson replied. “The NIS system allows us to quickly and remotely scan large areas or large numbers of persons. The scanner can be mounted on an unmanned aircraft to scan large areas of land like farms and cities; they can be set up to work alongside metal detectors; or they can be used by enforcement personnel on vehicles or as hand wands.”

“But if you don’t take one of those tablets…?”

“NIS is designed to facilitate identification, not to locate illegals, sir,” Jason said. “If you were scanning a group of persons and someone didn’t reply with an NIS signal, you would detain them and use other methods to try to obtain their identity. NIS has possible uses outside border security: it could be used for any sort of identification, such as at airports or high-security buildings. It might even have commercial purposes: the unique identification code broadcast by NIS can be tied into any number of databases that could allow individuals to securely pay for items without using credit cards, unlock doors without keys, provide access to confidential medical data without paper files—an almost unlimited number of applications.”

“So the system identifies persons legally in the country, and then you must assume that everyone else is a suspect,” Lemke said. “We’re forced to take away the right of privacy of the innocent in order to help identify the possible lawbreaker? That’s not how our society is supposed to work, Major Richter.”

“It’s done all the time, Mr. Secretary, especially in a free and open society such as ours,” Jefferson said. “NIS is no different in concept than putting locks on doors or building fences around neighborhoods: it’s an inconvenience for the innocent in order to protect them against the criminals.”

“‘Giving up your freedom in order to ensure safety makes you neither free nor safe.’ Benjamin Franklin,” Lemke quoted. “Is that where we’re headed now, Sergeant Major? Plant microscopic tattletales on innocent men, women, and children in order to weed out the undesirables—is that truly what we want to do?”

“Mr. Secretary, Task Force TALON is responding to my request for proposals on the issues of border security,” the National Security Adviser said. “Our intention is not to address every legal, moral, or civil rights question that may arise—I don’t believe we’d ever get anything accomplished if we canceled every project or innovation because it might have a civil rights issue.

“Launching unmanned aerial spy planes and deploying forty thousand troops to patrol the borders wouldn’t be enough, even if they were one hundred percent effective—we need some way to locate illegal persons who are already in the United States, those who slip past our security, or those whose status changes while in the country,” Jefferson went on. “Regular identification methods can’t work because they are too easily forged and it assumes your subject comes before you willingly to submit his or her ID, if they even have any. Of course it would be better to use the NIS system in illegal persons, but that’s unworkable: a guilty person doesn’t stay guilty, and a guilty person may not cooperate with authorities, presenting the prospect of forcing a person to submit to the NIS system as part of release, probation, or parole.”

“This is sounding more and more like ‘Big Brother’ by the moment,” Lemke said. He turned to the President. “Sir, are you sure you want to travel down this path? Civil rights groups are going to scream bloody murder about this obtrusive electronic ID program.”

“Jeffrey, we have been wrestling with these legal and moral questions ever since Nine-Eleven: whether the government can install more obtrusive security and identification systems on the law-abiding public in order to try to protect the public against deadly attacks,” the President responded. “How much is too much? The people are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; the government’s responsibility is to do everything possible to ensure they get it. We put up with security, monitoring, and other restrictions to freedom now that would make the framers of the Constitution scream in agony.”

“Then I suggest that you don’t take the next step, sir—don’t make the situation worse by throwing the military into it,” Lemke said. “The Department of Homeland Security already uses thousands of National Guardsmen and Reservists for duties like searching cargo containers assisting both Immigration and Customs Enforcement and the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection; we’ve already absorbed the U.S. Coast Guard, which has primary responsibility for patrolling and safeguarding the coast and ports. We’ve always stopped short of putting the military on the borders because an open and free society shouldn’t have to militarize its borders, especially with friendly neighbors…”

“Our neighbors may be friendly, Jeffrey,” Jefferson said, “but they are not always cooperative. Illegal immigration and undocumented workers are of great benefit to countries like Mexico because they reduce the strain on services in Mexico and bring millions of U.S. dollars into the Mexican economy each year. The Mexican government has done a lot to make sure it is safe to travel back and forth across the borders illegally, if not outright promote illegal immigration.”

The President turned to Director of Customs and Border Protection Abernathy. “Director Abernathy? Your thoughts.”

“Operation Rampart alters the relationship between the United States and Mexico in a very drastic manner, Mr. President,” Abernathy said. “Neighbors should do whatever’s possible to cooperate with one another if a problem develops. Militarizing the border is counterproductive and is in my opinion a downright aggressive posture, along the lines of the East and West German border region during the Cold War. We have the technology to take surveillance, security, and identification to a whole new level of effectiveness—the question is, should we do it, even if it means putting yet another level of government intrusion on our lives?”

The President sat back in his seat and wearily rubbed his eyes. “Before Nine-Eleven, I would have said no—we should be doing everything possible to preserve freedom and privacy. I have always believed in smaller government; I believed some of the laws passed in the angry emotional aftermath of Nine-Eleven went too far. I always believed the guilty have the same rights as the innocent. But then there was Kingman City, San Francisco, Washington, and now Blythe—more examples of how a determined enemy can exploit our freedom to accomplish his deadly goals.

“I’m not going to wait any longer on this, Jeffrey,” the President went on. “I’ve attended more funerals in the past several months than I ever thought possible, and I’m tired of standing up in front of crowds of angry and confused mourners, promising to do something more to stop terrorists from infiltrating our borders and conducting attacks against us.” He took a deep breath before continuing: “I have been President during the three most deadliest terrorist acts ever on U.S. soil, events that make even Nine-Eleven pale in comparison. I was hoping that the danger would have subsided, but I see now it has only intensified. I refuse to sit back and worry about taking away rights while the evil in this world attacks us with abandon.”

President Conrad looked at the others around him, searching their eyes or expressions for any sign of dissent or argument. He found nothing but stone-somber faces and averted eyes. “Let Congress or the courts decide if what we do here this day violates the Constitution we all swore to uphold,” he said. “As the leader of the Executive Branch of our government as well as this nation, which has declared war on terrorism and has vowed to fight it wherever it is found, with whatever weapon we have at our disposal, I will act.

“Gentlemen, the attack on our Border Patrol agents by these highly trained and well-equipped assassins is a warning that our borders are wide open and our country, our government, and our people are vulnerable,” he said. “I mean to do something about it, and I want it done now. I want this program rolling quickly, efficiently, and positively.

“I’m staking my entire political future on this project, and I expect each one of my administrators and commanders to follow through one hundred and ten percent,” the President concluded. “If you can’t do it, I expect your resignations on my desk by the time I get back to Washington. I want total commitment, or you can find work elsewhere. Understood?” There was a muted chorus of “Yes, Mr. President” around the room. “Let’s get it on, folks.”

FIVE MILES SOUTH OF OCATILLO, CALIFORNIA

DAYS LATER

The five-mile gap between the steel border security fences between the Tecate and Mexicali border crossing points had been filled in with a simple fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence, which was laughably easy to climb. The fence was also cut into pieces in many areas, so much so that it was possible to walk through it without getting your clothes dirty or snagged. Messages and flags posted in various towns, villages, roads, and bus stations in Mexico also told the latest news about which parts of the fence were open, which cameras were active or broken, and where recent arrests had been made. Intel on crossing the fence was plentiful and mostly accurate.

Everyone also knew there were motion sensors buried in various places between the border, Route 98, and Interstate 8. The sensors would send a signal to the U.S. Border Patrol stations in San Diego or El Centro, alerting air and ground patrols. The Border Patrol planes had heat-seeking FLIR sensors, which could make out a warm body easily against the rapidly chilling ground at night. But at night the ground patrols took much longer to travel cross-country, if they came at all, so even with a plane up unless you were really unlucky and a patrol was already in the area, you were probably going to make it. Even if a Border Patrol vehicle did show, once the pollos scattered it was tough to round them all up again, so at night the majority of this group of twenty-five illegals crossing the border had a pretty good chance of making it to the interstate highway. A few would always get caught, but most would make it.

It was a numbers game most migrants were willing to play. The strongest and most dedicated of them would make it. The women, children, and the weaker ones had their own role to play too: they gave the Border Patrol someone to catch.

Once the migrants got to Ocatillo, there was a fairly sophisticated travel network set up to get the majority of them to their destinations. Many had relatives waiting for them; many used gypsy taxis and buses, many of them run by farm owners and driven by illegals themselves, to transport pollos to their jobs or to more migrant-friendly bus stations, ones not patrolled as frequently by Border Patrol or Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents. Once north of Interstate 8, the chances of evading the authorities and blending into the largely Hispanic population of southern California was much easier.

The trek for this group of twenty-five men and women went smoothly. They camped a couple miles from the border in a small gully until dark, out of sight of infrequent American patrols; then they crossed the chain-link fence, followed a circuitous path around known motion sensors, and hurried on, being careful to stay off established paths and roads where patrols and sensors would likely be.

By midnight the group was within sight of the town of Ocatillo. Another couple of hours to reach the outskirts of town, and then they would disperse. The group was excited, talking in soft but energetic voices. About a full day on foot, and they were safely in the U.S., ready to get to work. So far, no sign of any patrols or…

At that moment, they heard, “La atención, ésta es la frontera de Estado Unidos patrulla. Permanezca donde usted está y tenga por favor su identificación lista demostrar a los oficiales. Gracias.”

“A la chingada! The Border Patrol is here!” one of the migrants cursed.

“Where? Where are they?” another asked. The Border Patrol rarely sneaked up on migrants in the field—they came in with lights on vehicles or helicopters blazing; their checkpoints were surrounded by lights that could be seen for miles, as if very demonstrably broadcasting a warning for the illegals to turn around and head back to the border.

“¿Quién cuida? Just run!” At that, eight men took off, five running east and the other three heading west. The rest of the group seemed confused and scared; a few “assumed the position”—squatting down, arms on their knees, and lighting up a cigarette, awaiting arrest—and several others headed off in random, mostly southerly directions, bumping into each other as they fled. A few dared not use flashlights, but most pulled out their “lucis,” short for luciérnaga, or “fireflies”—small disposable flashlights to help them see in the pitch-black darkness, part of the discarded artifacts of the pollos’ presence, along with water bottles and plastic ponchos, which could be seen littering the desert by the thousands along the border region from California to Texas.

“No funcione por favor o usted puede ser dañado,” the electronic voice said. Naturally, none of the ones running stopped. The only lights visible were the lights of Ocatillo far off on the horizon, and that direction had to be avoided. The runners simply put the lights of Ocatillo on their backs or left or right shoulders and ran as best they could, hoping that the Border Patrol would pick someone else to arrest.

The group of eight men running east shielded their “lucis” as much as possible to avoid giving away their position, but they still had trouble maintaining their balance as they half-ran, half-stumbled through the darkness. But the chase—the scratches from running into thorny bushes, the twisted ankles, the headlong tumbles down an unseen wash—was part of the game, and they played it well. The Border Patrol had their all-terrain vehicles, helicopters, dogs, and sensors—all the migrants had were their feet and their desire to make it safely to their destination. Most often they came out on top, proof enough to them that their exertion was worthwhile and justified. The farther they ran, the better chances they had of…

Suddenly they heard an electronic voice shout, “¡Parada! ‘Stop!’” directly in front of them, but they could see nothing in the darkness. Two men dodged left away from what they thought was the source of the voice…and ran headlong right into what felt like a steel wall. “¡Madre del díos!” one of them shouted. Dazedly he looked up, then flicked on his luci…

…just in time to see a large figure—not a man, but a man-shaped figure as big as a church doorway. The thing was about ten feet tall, with a ribbed frame throughout with a light gray covering underneath. Its arms were attached to broad shoulders, thinning down to a slender waist, but its legs and feet were wide and very steady-looking. Its head was bullet-shaped, with a variety of sensors attached all around it. But the most unusual thing about the robot is how it moved. It was remarkably agile and incredibly humanlike in all its movements, with every human nuance duplicated with amazing precision. As they watched, the thing darted away and was gone in the blink of an eye into the darkness.

One of the pollos tried to get up and run, but he stumbled into a thorny bush in the darkness, and the energy simply drained out of his body. The second man started scrambling across the desert on his hands and knees, but finally gave up as well and rejoined his dazed amigo.

Through his imaging infrared sensor, Captain Frank “Falcon” Falcone aboard CID One could see the desert landscape even clearer than in the shimmering, eye-burning daytime—and the migrants stood out even clearer, even at ranges in excess of two miles. “Two down here,” he radioed. “I’m going after the group of five.”

“We have a good eyeball on you, Falcon,” Ariadna Vega said. She was back at the first Rampart forward operating location constructed as part of the presidential directive to fortify the U.S.-Mexico border, located about eight miles southeast. She was watching images broadcast from an unmanned reconnaissance vehicle called a Condor, orbiting overhead in a racetrack pattern in this often-used migrant border-crossing area. “The last guy in your group looks like he’s giving up.” She could clearly see the third runner with his hands on his head, walking in the direction from where he came. “The group of five have split up into two groups, Charlie and Delta. Delta looks like the group of three.”

“Got ’em,” Falcone said. Every time he moved his head, his electronic visor showed small lettered arrows where the Condor’s targeting sensors had locked onto a person. “On the way.” Falcone turned in the direction of the Delta arrow and started off in a fast trot, quickly reaching thirty miles an hour and catching up to the runners with ease. He ran past them, then stopped about fifty yards in front of their path and watched as they ran toward him. When they got closer he broadcast, “Los hombres, éste son la frontera patrullan Operation Rampart. Por favor parada. No le dañaré. ‘Please stop. I won’t hurt you.’”

“¡Déjenos solos, híbrido!” one of them shouted. Falcone reached out just as one was about to run past him and gave him a push, sending him flying and crashing into the hard-baked earth. Another really big pollo, shining his flashlight on the CID unit before him, gasped aloud, swore, ran toward Falcone, jumped, and kicked out with both feet as if he was trying to break down a door. Falcone wasn’t prepared for the jump-kick and didn’t brace himself; he staggered backward a few steps when the big Mexican hit.

“¿No tan resistente, eh, cerdo?” the third man shouted gleefully. “You messed with the wrong toro tonight, culo!” Out of nowhere he produced an Intratec TEC-9 nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, leveled it, and opened fire, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. The second migrant screamed, trying to tell the third not to shoot, then covering his ears and flattening himself on the ground as the machine gun erupted.

“Eso no era muy elegante, amigo,” Falcone said through his electronic translator. The migrant’s shots were running wild; Falcone was sure he had not been hit; and the rusty sand-coated gun jammed after the fifth or sixth round—but still, something happened to Frank Falcone in the next few milliseconds that he could not explain. Maybe it was just piloting the CID unit; maybe it was the excitement of the night patrol…he didn’t think, he just reacted. Moving with breathtaking speed, Falcone rushed at the gunman, and like a football linebacker running at full speed, tackled him with his right shoulder.

The Cybernetic Infantry Device robots were not heavy—the CID unit with Falcone aboard weighed less than three hundred and fifty pounds—but at the speed Falcone was moving, the impact was like getting hit by a car traveling over thirty miles an hour. The entire force of the impact of the CID unit’s shoulder centered squarely on the migrant’s left lung and heart, crushing his sternum and rib cage and driving pieces of bone through both organs. The man did not have enough breath to cough out the chestful of blood flooding his throat and right lung, and he died within moments.

“Oh, Christ!” Falcone cursed. “Control, CID One, I have a suspect down my position. I tackled the guy, and it looks like I really bashed him. I’m dismounting.”

“We registered gunshots, One,” Ariadna radioed. “Do not dismount until we can secure the area.” There was no response. “CID One, do you read me? Falcon, answer up.”

But Falcone had already climbed out of the CID unit and gone over to the gunman with a flashlight and first-aid kit from the CID unit’s dismount container, a device resembling a fanny pack attached to the back of the robot. It did not take long for him to make an assessment—the guy was definitely dead. Falcone went back to the dismount container and retrieved a wireless headset. “Ari? Falcon. He’s dead. Send a Border Patrol van with a medical examiner.”

Ariadna was already talking excitedly when Falcone released the Transmit key: “…converging on your position, repeat, Frank, I see two unknowns moving in on your position! Do you copy?”

“I copy, Ari. Which direc…?” He was interrupted by the sound of bullets ricocheting off the CID unit beside him. “Shots fired, Ari!” he radioed. “Where are they?”

“West of your position, Frank!” Ari responded. “Get down! Take cover!”

Falcone hit the ground and crawled behind the CID unit. He heard more gunshots, but no more bullets hit the robot or the earth around him. He tried to reach up to the dismount container to retrieve the wrist remote controller, but excited voices in Spanish and more gunshots made him duck again for cover. They were close, very close. Flashlight beams started to arc in his direction. “They’re almost on me, Ari,” Falcone said. “Take control of CID One and take ’em out!”

“Roger, Falcon,” Vega responded. Moments later the hatch on the back of the CID unit snapped shut, and the big robot lumbered to life. “¡Caiga sus armas! ¡Ésta es su advertencia pasada!” Ariadna radioed through the robot via the satellite datalink. She raised the robot’s hands and arms menacingly, steering the robot toward the oncoming migrants, hopefully enough to scare them off but not too far away to expose Falcone. The robot had no weapons, and the satellite downlink was very slow—the robot would be able to do little else but walk and talk under her control…

…and at that moment, it appeared as if the gunmen figured that detail out, for they immediately split up and started to flank the robot, circling it and moving closer to Falcone. Ari had no choice but to make the CID unit step back to protect Falcone.

“¿Cuál es incorrecto, Señor Robot?” one of the gunmen asked. “Not so tough now, are you?”

“¡Mate al poli y salgamos de aquí!” the other gunman shouted. “Send him to hell and let’s…aaiieee!” Suddenly the second gunman’s voice was cut off with a strangled scream. The first gunman swung his flashlight around toward his comrade and saw a large metal container of some kind lying on the ground next to the unconscious second gunman. The first gunman cried out, dropped his weapon, and ran off.

“You okay, Falcon?” Jason Richter radioed. A few moments later, CID Two ran up to where Falcone was still lying prone on the desert floor, and Jason dismounted.

“I’m okay,” Falcone replied. They checked the unconscious gunman together. “What’d you hit him with, boss?”

“The only thing I had on me—the dismount container,” Jason said. “Good thing the laser targeting system was still up and running. Where’s the first attacker?”

Falcone showed him where the dead gunman was. “I recommend we bring weapons next time, boss,” Falcone said.

Jason had seen his share of casualties in his short tenure as commander of Task Force TALON, but the condition of this corpse still made him a little queasy—it looked as if his chest had been flattened all the way to his spine, rupturing and smearing all of his internal organs throughout what was left of his body and all around him on the ground. There was no doubt, Jason thought ruefully, that no matter how violent these migrants had been, TALON was still going to take some heat for killing one like this.

“If there is a next time, Falcon,” Jason said. “If there is a next time.”