Edge of Battle

by Dale Brown

  “¡Déjenos en paz!” the smuggler shouted. “¡Veracruz de comandante dice que estamos en el suelo mejicano!”

  “What did he say?” O’Rourke asked.

  “Something about someone called Commander Veracruz saying he is on Mexican soil,” Georgie replied.

  “Is he high? Is he crazy? This is America, not Mexico!” O’Rourke said acidly. “This Veracruz guy is nothing but a rabble-rouser and drug dealer who thinks he’s some hot-shot Mexican version of George Washington.”

  “I say again, drop those bags immediately!” Geitz said over the loudspeaker, ignoring the radio call from his observation team. “Usted no será dañado, prometo. You will be allowed to pass after we have searched your possessions for weapons.”

  “Screw you, gringo!” the smuggler shouted. “You don’t have no right to do this!”

  “Alpha Team, this is Fido. Be advised, we’ve lost our video downlink, but we saw two separate contacts approaching east and west of your position, range less than thirty meters. Recommend you use caution; repeat, we lost the downlink. Do you copy, Alpha?”

  “I said, drop those bags, cagado!” Geitz shouted, shining his flashlight directly into the young man’s eyes to try to disorient him.

  “I…I think Commander Geitz just called that guy a coward, boss,” Georgie Wayne said. “He ain’t gonna like that.”

  “¡Me cago en la leche de que mamaste!” the coyote shouted angrily, and he reached into the right satchel.

  “He’s reaching for a gun!” O’Rourke screamed, his voice rising several octaves in pure terror. “Watch out! He’s got a gun!”

  Everything was a blur of motion at that moment. Georgie Wayne was right beside O’Rourke with his left hand on his shoulder, trying to get his attention, and when the first shots rang out he immediately pulled the radio personality to the ground and lay on top of him. Men were screaming all around them. The gunshots sounded like firecrackers, punctuated occasionally by a loud “BOOOM!” from a heavy-caliber gun.

  It seemed like the shooting lasted an hour, but in reality it was only seconds. O’Rourke waited until all the shooting had subsided; then, with all the courage he could muster, said to Wayne in a low voice, “Get off me, dammit!”

  “Stay down, boss…”

  “We’re not here to hide like chickens, Georgie! Get off me!” Georgie reluctantly slid off him—O’Rourke found himself committed now to get up, even though his legs were shaking so badly that he might not have been able to make it. “What happened? Did the smugglers open fire?” He looked up and saw Herman Geitz walking beside him, with his sidearm still smoking in his right hand. “Geitz! What happened? Were we attacked by the smugglers?”

  Geitz looked down at O’Rourke and opened his mouth as if he was going to reply…but instead, a torrent of blood rushed from his open mouth, his eyes rolled up into his head, and the man pitched over and landed face-first on the rocky ground.

  “Oh…my…God!” O’Rourke gasped. Years of experience taught him to never say a word unless he had a switched-on microphone in his hand, and the flood of emotions that came forth were all caught on tape. “Jesus, Commander Geitz has been killed, shot in the head…God, the whole back of his head is gone, it’s just one big massive bloody hole…the smell of gunpowder is unbelievable, almost overpowering…Georgie, are you okay? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, boss, yes,” Wayne responded. “I’m going to see if anyone else needs help.”

  “No!” O’Rourke blurted out, a lot more fearfully than he’d intended. “Don’t leave me…I mean, the smugglers could still be out there! Stay down!”

  But Georgie had already taken his recording gear off and was low-crawling along the trail. The members of the American Watchdogs were standing around in dumbfounded shock and disbelief, weapons smoking in their hands, flashlight beams jerking and darting aimlessly in all directions. Wayne moved carefully, not wanting to startle them in case they might start shooting again. He didn’t move very far before he discovered a body. “Oh, Christ, one of the migrants…a woman. Shot in the belly. Another migrant…Jesus, looks like they’re all dead, every one of the migrants.”

  “This…this is unbelievable,” O’Rourke repeated hoarsely into his microphone. “There has been a massacre on this trail tonight, my friends and listeners, a massacre on an enormous scale. Eight members of the American Watchdog Project, volunteers, men who risked their lives to help patrol this remote and dangerous border region, have…have apparently shot and killed a group of about twenty migrants on this trail. When Commander Herman Geitz ordered the migrants to put down their bags so they could be searched, one of the migrants apparently opened fire, and the Watchdogs returned fire. More shots rang out—shotguns, handguns…the noise and confusion was horrifying. It…it is just plain impossible to put into words.

  “Now, just moments later, it appears that everyone…all the migrants on this trail are dead. Twenty or so illegal immigrants who sneaked across the border and were attempting to infiltrate into the United States of America have been killed, along with the commander of the American Watchdog Project. The smuggler leading this group was afraid of being caught with weapons, afraid of what the Border Patrol might do to them after the horrible assassinations near Blythe, California just a few days ago, afraid of being sent to prison instead of just being released again into Mexico a few days from now, and they were determined not to be taken into custody. So he pulled out a weapon and began firing, and in the confusion, the Watchdogs returned fire, and now…now…my God, the migrants all appear to be dead, every one of them.”

  RAMPART ONE FORWARD OPERATING BASE,

  OCATILLO, CALIFORNIA

  THE NEXT MORNING

  The Mexican Army forces stationed on the border south of Rampart One had just raised their flag, played the “Himno Nacional Mexicano,” and were now policing up their encampment when the new unit arrived. An additional six M-11 ULTRAV armored reconnaissance vehicles and HWK-11 armored personnel carriers, and thirty-three infantrymen, pulled up to the encampment in a cloud of gray dust and noise.

  The commander of the new unit, Major Gerardo Azueta, dismounted from his American-made Humvee and stretched his aching legs. Azueta was way too tall and thin to comfortably ride in the bumpy, creaky Humvee, but any opportunity to get out of the garrison and into the field was welcome, especially on a low-risk, cushy, and high-visibility assignment such as this. The current unit commander greeted him with a salute. “Welcome, Major,” Lieutenant Salinas said, introducing himself. “Lieutenant Ignacio Salinas, commander of this detail. Good to see you again, sir.” All officers in the Mexican armed forces were graduates of Chapultepec, the Mexican military academy in Mexico City; the officer cadre was very small and officers in the same state knew and saw each other often. “How was your trip from Mexicali?”

  “A nightmare, as usual,” Azueta replied, brushing dust off his olive green uniform. “General Cardenas did not want to send any more companies from state headquarters, so we had to move almost the entire force from Ensenada. It took all day. The regimental commander there said he could not spare any infantry to go along with the vehicles, so he rounded up a bunch of Rural Defense Force militia to accompany us. They are worse than conscripts.”

  “We have several in my detail, sir. They shape up quickly when they are away from the garrison.”

  “I know you and your men are anxious to get home, Lieutenant, but I am afraid these militiamen are going to go berserk if there is any trouble,” Azueta said. “It will only be for a few days, a week at the most.”

  Salinas had already received the notification from his company commander. Most men liked duty in the garrisons, but Salinas was young and liked assignments that took him away from town, no matter how trivial or menial the task. He motioned to a nearby tent and offered the senior officer a canvas camp chair and a plastic bottle of water, which Azueta accepted eagerly. “No problem at all, sir. We are happy to assist.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Status re
port, please.”

  “Things have calmed down considerably these past couple days, sir,” Salinas began. “I am sure you are aware of the recent incident in Arizona.”

  “Yes. A bloody act of murder, plain and simple. The American government is entirely to blame, allowing those vigilantes to operate in the border region.”

  “I agree completely, sir,” Salinas said. “I hope the president does not let up on her pressure on the Americans to stop this campaign of violence. Fortunately, despite that brutal incident, the situation is quiet here. The American military presence is all but nonexistent as far as we can tell from our position and from American news reports. They are making some attempts to repair and rebuild the facility, but it does not look like the base has been fortified, and there has been no sign of those manned robots. We see the reconnaissance airships and unmanned drones on occasion, and we must assume they and the regular Border Patrol units are operational.”

  “And the media?”

  “They haven’t been back since yesterday,” Salinas responded, “although I would expect them to return for comments on the murders in Arizona.”

  “Let me handle the media now, Lieutenant.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  “What about smuggler activity?”

  “None in our entire patrol sector, sir,” Salinas said, “which was expected. Having smugglers push all the way to remote sections of Arizona was fully expected; and after the incident here, I would have expected much American vigilante activity. Of course, Mexico will be blamed for what has happened here and in Arizona.”

  “It was only a matter of time before someone else got killed by vigilantes or right-wing extremists,” Azueta agreed. “The Americans are not stopping the level of violence whatsoever. That will be our biggest challenge: keeping the violence down until the politicians get off their fat asses and come to some sort of agreement.” Salinas nodded. “Let us go inspect the camp, and then we will inspect the border area. Maybe I will even get to meet one of those infamous robots.”

  Salinas recalled the armored personnel carrier patrols so Azueta could meet every one of the men in the detail. He was tough but not as tough as in the garrison—he understood the need for discipline, and demanded it, but he also knew they were in the field and certain things, like keeping boots perfectly polished or uniforms perfectly spotless, was going to be difficult at best. He loudly and harshly admonished the noncommissioned officers and men for missing equipment, dirty weapons, or men sleeping at their posts, but he was careful not to openly criticize anyone for not shaving or for rolling up their sleeves in the desert heat. There would be time enough for that back at base.

  After the equipment inspection, they got back into the Humvee again and began to drive toward the border area. They hadn’t gone very far when Azueta ordered the driver to stop. He immediately got out of the vehicle, stood on the hood, and peered north. “Lieutenant, when was the last time you did a tactical map of the border and scouted out all of the American patrol units and emplacements?” he asked.

  “We redo the map every three hours, sir,” Salinas responded. “The last one should have been done an hour ago.”

  “Either your men are liars or they thought they were going to be relieved and did not do it,” Azueta said. “Get up here and take a look.” Salinas did as he was told…and although Azueta handed him his binoculars, he didn’t need them to see the change.

  “Two…three…I count three Humvees to the west,” Salinas breathed. “My God, they were not here at daybreak, sir!”

  “I count two more to the east, spread out about a kilometer apart,” Azueta said. “They appear to be up-armored scout vehicles with .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the…”

  “And TOW missiles, sir,” Salinas interjected excitedly. “It appears every other unit to the west has TOW missile launchers on the gun turrets!”

  “That explains their deployment—they are spread out just far enough to have overlapping fields of fire for their TOWs,” Azueta said. “It is the same to the east.” He lowered his binoculars. “Well, well. The Americans have raised the stakes out here. We have a report to make to Mexico City, Lieutenant.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “Mr. President, I must protest this latest move of your military,” President Carmen Maravilloso of Mexico’s voice cried over the speakerphone, echoing throughout the historic room. Even the usually unflappable National Security Adviser, Raymond Jefferson, was startled when he heard the voice as he entered. “Again, you have put armed military forces on our border without consulting or even notifying us beforehand! This is not right, sir! This is not the action of a good and peaceful neighbor, sir.”

  “Madame President, as you well know, the United States is not obligated to report the movement of its military forces to Mexico or anyone else, no matter how close to the border.” U.S. President Samuel Conrad responded as calmly as he could. He had been expecting this phone call since issuing the order to Secretary of Defense Russell Collier minutes after receiving the report of the massacre in the Coronado National Forest in Arizona, and he had his cabinet and their staffs working since then to bring him up to speed on the myriad of treaties and agreements regarding military and police action on the U.S.-Mexico border. “This troop movement is in direct response to the murders of twenty-three Mexican nationals in the…”

  “I am very well aware of what has occurred, sir,” Maravilloso interrupted, still refusing to use President Conrad’s official title. “But I would have expected an investigation by the local sheriff’s office, perhaps assisted by the FBI or the Arizona State Police, not the American Army National Guard—and certainly not in California. What do you intend to do, sir—invade Mexico with the California National Guard? Those troops on our border have missile launchers! Missile launchers! What will be next—ballistic missiles and stealth bombers?”

  “Madame President, the United States intends on pursuing all legal options available to us to ensure the safety and security of our citizens, our nation, and any who are here legally…”

  “Do you intend on using the National Guard to hunt down Mexican citizens whose only goal is to do the work that Americans do not want to do themselves?” the fiery Mexican president asked. “That is a hateful and brutal policy, sir, akin to totalitarian regimes in North Korea or Myanmar. The people of Mexico are honest, hardworking, nonviolent, and law-abiding people. True, a few—a very few—have been corrupted by drug dealers to carry drugs; others respond to abuses by gangsters, white supremacists, and corrupt law enforcement officials by arming themselves. Will you condemn them all just for the actions of a few?”

  “Madame President, a horrible crime has been committed in Arizona last night,” the President said. With him in the Oval Office was his Chief of Staff, Thomas Kinsly, the Secretaries of Defense, State, and Homeland Security, the President’s National Security Adviser; and the one-star general in charge of deploying those National Guard forces to the southern border, all listening on a listen-only speakerphone. “It was broadcast around the world on the Internet. Nearly two dozen persons were horribly murdered by unknown assailants. The only evidence we have so far is the American Watchdog Project’s own Web broadcast…”

  “Do you refer to the right-wing radio instigator Bob O’Rourke and his lackey?” Maravilloso asked incredulously. “Surely you would not for a moment consider them credible witnesses, sir? Bob O’Rourke is one of the world’s most well-known and well-documented racists, a man who has been calling for the elimination of all nonwhites from the border region on his radio show for years. I am positive that he orchestrated this entire murder campaign in order to stir up a campaign of hate against all persons of color…”

  “I don’t think that’s an accurate characterization of his opinions, Madam…”

  “You agree with this racist? You support his contention that all Mexicans shoul
d be hunted down and forcibly removed from the United States?”

  “That’s not what he…”

  “Obviously you do, because you are doing precisely what Bob O’Rourke has been calling for: putting the military on the border, repealing Posse Comitatus, and removing all Mexicans from the United States. You, sir, are following his hysterical xenophobic fascist ranting to the letter! Please, Mr. President, I urge you: get control of this situation quickly before it gets out of hand.”

  “Madam President, I assure you, I’m doing all I can to defuse the growing crisis and deal with the illegal immigration problem,” Conrad said. “Placing National Guard forces on the border is a temporary measure until Congress approves a more comprehensive immigration reform package.”

  “Sir, Mexico is here to assist you any way we can,” Maravilloso said, “but it is hard to support you and your government when you make bold, radical moves such as this without consulting us first. You can help me help you by conferring with us beforehand. Good day to you, Mr. Conrad.” The connection terminated abruptly.

  “Who does she think she is, speaking to another foreign leader like that?” Thomas Kinsly said as he deactivated the listen-only receiver he had been using to monitor the call.

  “She’s using these circumstances to full political advantage, that’s what,” the President said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I’m getting hammered, and she’s looking like a tiger. She’s taken the complete moral high ground here, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”

  “Why not let State handle her calls from now on, Mr. President?”

  “Because heads of state talk to each other, not to the bureaucracy,” the President replied. “I’ll handle her calls just fine. She’s looking for anything I say to use against me—if I didn’t talk to her, no matter how rude she becomes, I’ll be the coward who didn’t take her call.” Kinsly had no response. The President turned to Attorney General Wentworth. “What do you have on the investigation, George?”