by Dale Brown
“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 w
hy 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.”
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…”
