by Dale Brown
He was interrupted by a beep from his command radio: “TALON One, TALON Two,” Ariadna radioed. “Condor has detected several large vehicles heading our way from the south across the border, about six kilometers out.”
At the same time, Ben Gray radioed, “TALON One, we have a possible situation out here at the south perimeter.”
“On my way,” Jason responded. Both he and Kelsey hurried off.
They found Gray standing on the roof of a Humvee, scanning the area to the south with binoculars. “Three armored personnel carriers, about five klicks south of us, spread out about two klicks along the border,” he reported when Richter and DeLaine ran up. “The one closest to us looks like an old World War Two half-track; the others are M-113s, with 12.7 mm machine guns mounted on the gunner’s turrets. I see flags of Mexico on their radio antennae.”
“Do they look like the real thing?” Jason asked.
Both Gray and DeLaine looked at Richter curiously—obviously neither of them had considered that they might not be official Mexican government vehicles. Gray scanned them again. “They look real enough to me,” he said, his voice definitely a bit more strained. “They look…hold on…they’re dismounting troops. I count…ten soldiers coming out of each vehicle carrying heavy packs and rifles.”
“We’re outgunned,” Jason said. “All we have is small arms and the CID units against three APCs and a platoon of infantry. It’s no better than even right now, and if we lost the CID unit, we’d be toast in minutes. Ben, better organize your security forces and stand by for action.” Gray blanched slightly and hurried off.
“‘Lost the CID units’? What are you talking about, Jason?” Kelsey asked as Gray sprinted past her. “You think the Mexican army means to attack us?”
“I’m not assuming they’re Mexicans,” Jason said, “or if they are, they’re not part of the Mexican army.”
“Who do you think they…?” Kelsey stopped—she finally figured out who Jason was worried about. “You think they might be Consortium?”
“Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov was a pro in recruiting local military personnel and getting his hands on all sorts of military hardware, all over the world,” Jason said worriedly. “That slimebag recruited dozens of American military men and stole hundreds of millions of dollars of weaponry, including helicopters, armored vehicles, and even a multiple rocket launcher, to assault Washington, D.C., and the White House. The bastard even stole Secret Service uniforms and equipment and got his hands on the President of the United States himself during his attack on Washington. If he could do that, he can certainly get control of Mexican military hardware and personnel.” He clicked the mike button on his command transceiver. “Ari…”
“I’ve got a call in to Jefferson at the White House, J,” Ariadna said. “They told me to stand by. I’m sending Condor imagery to TALON headquarters at Cannon to see if we can identify any of those soldiers.”
“What do they think they’re going to do?” Kelsey asked. “Are they going to assault the base?”
“It’s a possibility,” Jason said. “If it’s the Consortium, and their attack is successful, they could throw the entire continent of North America into a terrorism panic.” He changed channels on his command transceiver. “CID One.”
“I’m receiving the downlink from the Condor,” Falcone responded. “I’m in the aircraft maintenance hangar. What’s the plan?”
“Stay out of sight until we see what they’re going to do,” Jason said.
“Wilco.”
“Break. CID Two.”
“I’ve got them on my datalink too, sir,” Sergeant First Class Harry Dodd, U.S. Army, piloting the second Cybernetic Infantry Device, responded. “I’m eight point seven miles east of Rampart One. I can be there in thirteen minutes.”
“Negative. Hold your position for now. You’re guarding our east flank. Sound off if you see anything going on.”
“Roger.”
“This might just be a show of force, or some kind of probe,” Kelsey said. “They must know about our CID units…” But she fell silent—she knew she could not afford to assume anything right now.
“Jason, we’re picking up air targets—slow-moving, probably helicopters,” Ariadna said. “Closest one is about six miles out.”
“Where from?”
“All sides—six from north of the border, two from the south,” the civilian Army engineer said.
This was quickly getting way out of hand, Jason thought, trying to choke down a growing bolus of panic rising in his chest. “Any air traffic control codes?”
“Stand by…” It was the longest wait Jason could recall in a long time. “Negative, Jason, negative on the air traffic codes,” Ari finally reported breathlessly. “I’ll try to coordinate their tracks with the Domestic Air Interdiction Coordination Center at March Air Force Base to find out where they’re from.” There was another interminable wait; then: “Jason, the DAICC duty officer just blew me off. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell Richter that his friends at the Border Patrol said unable at this time: don’t call us, we’ll call you.’”
“Jerks,” Jason said. “Put in a call to Los Angeles Center and Riverside Approach, request some kind of track correlation and point of origin, and tell them it’s urgent. And keep on broadcasting warning messages to stay at least five miles away from the base or they could be attacked without warning. If we can’t fight ’em, our only chance is to bullshit them. And radio Cannon and tell them to bring some weapon packs out here.”
“You got it, J.”
This was definitely starting to get tense. “Rampart One, TALON One, did you copy about our visitors?”
“Affirm,” Gray responded. “I’m briefing my security platoon now. Stand by.” A few moments later: “TALON One, my guys are recommending we take any infantry units that move in on us; have your CIDs take the armored personnel carriers, if they move in.”
“And the helicopters?”
“All we’ve got are small arms, sir,” Gray reminded him. “If they try a gunship air-to-ground attack, we’ll just have to hunker down, stay out of sight, and wait for the infantry to try to engage us. We’re relying on your robots to put the fear of God into them.”
“That’s exactly what we intend to do,” Jason said. “Break. CID Two, start heading back to Rampart One. Defend yourself using any means necessary.”
“CID Two copies,” Dodd responded.
“Break. Ari?”
“Still on hold with Los Angeles ARTCC,” Ariadna said. “The nearest helicopter is three miles out.”
“They’re ignoring the TFR,” Jason said. The TFR, or temporary flight restriction, was a cylinder of restricted airspace established around the base and the Condor airships to prevent aircraft from overflying them. The Condor airship had a civil aircraft transponder that broadcast identification signals to other aircraft to try to prevent a mid-air collision, since it was almost impossible for the unmanned Condors to maneuver out of another plane’s way. “Rampart One, they’re inside the TFR. Weapons tight until you see a gun, then repel all invaders.”
“Rampart One copies. All Rampart units, this is Rampart One, weapons tight, repeat, weapons tight. Sound off immediately if you see weapons or encounter hostile action. All squads acknowledge.”
“Inside two miles, J, bearing two-five-five,” Ari radioed.
Jason scanned the sky and saw a helicopter in the distance. “Got a visual,” he radioed on the command network. “Doesn’t look military—looks like a civilian aircraft, a Bell JetRanger or similar. Paint looks civilian.”
“Second aircraft bearing one-nine-five, two miles.”
“No contact,” he said. He swung around and focused on the first helicopter again. This was going to be a tough decision. If he guessed wrong, and the helicopter was hostile, it would open fire any second—but if it was not hostile, he’d have his men open fire on an unarmed aircraft. There really wasn’t any other choice—he just hoped to God he’d make the right one. “All Rampart uni
ts…dammit, weapons tight, repeat, weapons tight. It’s a civilian helicopter. Looks like it’s turning away.”
“Third aircraft bearing three-one-zero, two miles.”
“I got a visual on number three,” Gray radioed seconds later. “The sucker’s coming right for us.” Jason could now hear the third helicopter, and sweat broke out on his upper lip. “It’s moving in…it’s…shit, it’s a media helicopter. It says TV-12 on the underside. It looks like it has a zoom camera on the belly…I can see a TV logo on the side…I recognize that chopper. It’s a TV station chopper from San Bernardino.”
At that moment, Ariadna radioed: “J, just got the word from L.A. Center. They’re media helicopters—three from Los Angeles, two from San Diego, one from San Bernardino. The two on the Mexico side are also media, both from Tijuana.” It felt as if it was the first time in several minutes that Jason was able to take a normal breath. “L.A. Center asked one of them if they were aware of the TFRs in the area that they were headed directly for, and the pilots said no. L.A. Center told them to turn back, but…”
“But no TFR is going to get in the way of a good story,” Jason said. “Swell.”
“This is turning into a heck of a cluster-f—Well, you get the idea, J.” But Jason wasn’t in a joking mood. If he was a leader in the Consortium, this is precisely how he would organize a sneak attack: get a swarm of media aircraft overhead to confuse the scene, then strike. The three armored personnel carriers less than two miles away were still major threats—if they attacked, there was very little Richter’s forces could do about it. CID Two might be able to get back to base in time to help, but if he didn’t, or if he was ambushed by another strike team, the losses could be horrendous…
…and if the attackers had nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons, all of which the Consortium had used in the past, the fight would be over in moments.
No! Jason screamed at himself. It wasn’t the Consortium! It was just a bunch of reporters, out to cover a story that obviously the San Diego U.S. Attorney’s office had just planted. Overreacting now could kill Operation Rampart before it got started.
“All units, this is TALON One, stand down, repeat, stand down,” Jason radioed on the command network. “I believe the aircraft and vehicles are here to document this task force looking belligerent and dangerous—let’s not give them a headline. All Rampart units, acknowledge.”
“Rampart One acknowledges,” Gray radioed, then relayed the orders through his squads and got acknowledgments from all of them, keeping them on high alert but having them shoulder and holster their weapons.
“CID Two, I copy all,” Dodd responded. “Resuming my patrol. Negative contacts.”
“Rampart One, I want N-numbers and descriptions of every aircraft that comes within the TFR,” Jason said. “Those aircraft and their pilots’ asses are mine.”
“With pleasure, sir,” Gray responded.
It was almost comical to watch. The first helicopter seemingly “tiptoed” toward the base, turning suddenly as if suddenly realizing it was in restricted airspace; then a second helicopter would move in a few hundred yards closer, then turn away; then a third would come in closer still. Soon the helicopters were hovering almost right overhead, less than five hundred feet above them—one helicopter dipped to less than a hundred feet to get pictures of excited migrant children waving in the exercise yard, women with babies running for cover from the swirling dust the helicopters kicked up, and men coming out of the latrines, tying ropes around their waists to keep their pants up.
“TALON One, you’re on the tube,” Ari radioed a few moments later. “Better go take a look.”
Jason walked over to the mess tent, which had a large flat-panel TV set up with satellite TV access. The TV was already set up to one of the all-news channels—and there, in high-definition color, was an image of Jason walking across the base, taken just moments ago. The camera quickly panned back to the detention area, showing in closeup detail the razor-wire-topped chain-link fences, housing units, latrines, and finally the chain-link dog-pen detention cells.
“Well, so much for keeping a low profile out here,” Jason muttered. He picked up his command net radio: “Ari?”
“He was just called to a meeting in the White House,” Ari said immediately, referring to National Security Adviser Jefferson. “He said to stand by at a secure line in case they want to conference you in.”
“Great. Just great,” Jason said. The command tent was still being repaired, so he’d have to wait in the Humvee. This morning was truly shaping up to be a real headache.
THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
A SHORT TIME LATER
“Is the whole damned world going stark raving crazy?” the President of the United States thundered. Like a high school principal who had just heard explanations from three of his pupils who had just been caught drag-racing in the school parking lot, President Samuel Conrad had Ray Jefferson, Attorney General George Wentworth, Secretary of Homeland Security Jeffrey Lemke, and Brigadier General Ricardo Lopez, commander of Operation Rampart, standing before his desk. He had just received reports from his four advisers on what had just happened in southern California. “Are your people all totally out of control, or just plain stupid?”
“Mr. President, will all due respect to this office, I will not allow what has happened out there today to stand,” Wentworth said angrily. George Wentworth was one of the most experienced and respected elder statesmen in Washington—he was so respected by both major political parties that no one was surprised that he stayed on after the administration’s shakeup following the Consortium terror attacks in the United States, even though the FBI and Justice Departments were roundly criticized for not protecting the nation better. “Three federal agents were physically assaulted by one of Jefferson’s task force members, and several of my people, including a district U.S. Attorney, were put into cages like stray dogs! Richter’s men are totally out of control out there, and they need to be recalled and prosecuted immediately!”
“I agree, Mr. President,” Secretary of Homeland Security Lemke said. “We don’t know all the details of that encounter, but once the international press gets hold of this story, they’ll murder us.” He motioned to the flat-panel TV in the cabinet to the right of the President’s desk. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Those choppers are not supposed to be overflying that base,” Ray Jefferson said, glancing at the TV screen. “That’s restricted airspace.”
“What do you want to do about it, Jefferson—shoot them down?” Wentworth asked.
“What would you do to any media helicopters that flew within a mile of Air Force One—have the FAA slap their wrists?” Jefferson asked. “The temporary flight restriction zone was set up around that base for a reason…”
“And it appears the reason is to keep the world from witnessing the human rights atrocities that are being performed out there!” Wentworth argued. “That’s what the press is going to say, you can bet on it!”
“All right, that’s enough,” the President said, holding up his hands. “Listen, we all knew we were going to take a lot of bad press about this plan.” He gave Wentworth a glare, then added, “But I don’t want the source of a lot of bad press to be my own cabinet. George, you told the cabinet when we implemented this plan that we were legally authorized to set up those detention facilities; you also said that we could establish that restricted airspace over those bases and around those bird-looking blimp things. Are you just talking about objections to the sight of those facilities, or are you warning us about serious legal challenges to the plan?”
“There are bound to be numerous legal challenges to the plan, Mr. President,” Wentworth replied. “I assume Justice and your counsel’s office will be quite busy in the months ahead. But sir, I was horrified at the sight of those chain-link fences and cages—and I was part of getting this plan put into action! I can’t begin to imagine the international outrage when t
he world sees those things on American soil!
“I’m also angry because of Major Richter’s treatment of my U.S. attorney and marshals,” he went on. “My God, sir, one of those robots—manned by the same officer who killed that migrant last night—nearly ripped one of the marshal’s arms off, and he used the marshals’ bodies to club down the other! It’s unacceptable behavior…!”
“About the reason why the U.S. Attorney and the marshals were there in the first place…” Jefferson began.
But Wentworth held up a hand. “I know, I know, Cass didn’t say ‘pretty please,’” he said irritably.
“George…”
“There is some confusion about whether Miss Cass properly requested permission to enter the facility, or tried to do so under her own authority,” Wentworth said to the President. “And yes, perhaps she started throwing her weight around when she didn’t have any to throw around. She may be guilty of bad judgment and sloppy paperwork. But that Task Force TALON officer, Falcone, is guilty of three counts of assaulting a federal officer, and Richter is guilty of false imprisonment…”
“George, I respect your wisdom and experience,” the President interjected, “but I’m telling you again: stop making definitive statements that undermine our own programs before we know all the facts. Falcone and Richter are not ‘guilty’ of anything. At a later date, when I give the okay, you can charge them if you want, and we’ll let a circuit court judge or the Supreme Court decide who has jurisdiction. Until that time, the words you need to remember are ‘We’re investigating, so I have no comment.’ Understood?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Wentworth said. “But we can’t keep those task force members out there any longer. The operation can continue—there’s no legal reason I can surmise that prohibits us from patrolling our own borders—but the presence of those robot contraptions will only terrorize the citizens on both sides even more.”
