Edge of Battle aow-2

by Dale Brown

“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 i
n 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 Pa
trol 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.