Edge of Battle

by Dale Brown

  “In light of the loss of the CID unit, sir, perhaps we should consider…”

  “I’d like to keep that quiet for now, Sergeant Major,” the President said. “I realize how powerful those things are, but I don’t think just one poses a serious threat to this country. Work with the FBI to find that thing right away.”

  “Sir, I strongly suggest…”

  “That’s all for now, Sergeant Major,” the President insisted. “If you have any more concrete evidence that Zakharov has the robot and that it poses a significant threat, advise me immediately. Otherwise, I want the border situation to calm the hell down before anyone else gets killed—‘accidentally’ or otherwise.” He stood, and everyone else got to their feet. “Thanks, everyone,” he said brusquely as he strode out of the Situation Room, followed closely by the Chief of Staff. The rest of the National Security Staff departed right behind them.

  Alone in the Situation Room, Ray Jefferson sat and thought about the meeting for a few minutes, then picked up a secure phone and dialed a number. “Yes, Sergeant Major?” Brigadier General Lopez responded a few moments later.

  “Any news on your end since the incident in El Centro this morning, sir?”

  “No, Sergeant Major, everything is quiet for the time being. My units have made a few dozen illegal immigrant intercepts over the past forty-eight hours, down slightly from normal. No trouble. We have a few volunteer border watch groups out east of Rampart One on private land, maybe three camps with a couple dozen folks, mostly elderly local ranchers. We’re keeping an eye on them.”

  “The president of Mexico has assumed responsibility for the El Centro attack, sir,” Jefferson said. “She claims she authorized the aircraft to fly across the border but denies giving any orders for the jets to attack American aircraft.”

  “You buy that, Sergeant Major?”

  “No, sir, but the President does, and he wants to drop Maravilloso a kudo. He wants to remove the TOW missiles from the border immediately, stop all further Guard deployments, and pull some Guard units off the border.”

  “No problem. The guys don’t like being out there, I can tell you.”

  “Sir?”

  “No official reports from any units out there, Sergeant Major, just the buzz I’m picking up—it may sound like typical soldier bellyaching, but I’m picking up a definite read on these guys out there, and it’s not favorable,” Lopez said uneasily. “They’re staying pretty busy despite the tension and the presence of troops on both sides. Weather conditions are uncomfortable, very much like Iraq…”

  “I would’ve thought the southwestern Guard guys are used to working in the heat.”

  “Again, Sergeant Major, I categorize a lot of this as typical soldier moaning and groaning,” Lopez said, “but there is an undercurrent of uneasiness. Hours and hours sweating away in the heat or freezing at night, and all they come up with is a handful of thirsty, starving, desperate Mexicans who just want to go to work. The units that find dead migrants are especially hard-hit—dying of thirst is a tough way to go, and a lot of the guys aren’t accustomed to seeing death like that. They’ve found…I believe over sixty-five dead migrants during their patrols, including children. It hits them hard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s tough on them, that’s all,” Lopez said. Jefferson detected a hint of frustration in the general’s voice, as if he expected a bit more empathy from the National Security Adviser and was disappointed he didn’t get it. “Which units do you want gone, specifically, Sergeant Major?” he asked perturbedly.

  “Choose TOW missile units, units in high-visibility locations with lots of press around, and units that have been in the field the longest, in that order, sir,” Jefferson said. “I want it to look like a reduction but I don’t want it to be an open invitation for smugglers to resume travel through those areas. Limit the reductions to around ten percent until we get further guidance. I’ll send a written copy of the order to your headquarters.”

  “Okay, Sergeant Major.”

  “Thank you, sir. Jefferson out.” His next phone call was to Ariadna Vega and FBI Director Kelsey DeLaine, teleconferenced in together. “Have you been briefed, Miss Director?” he asked.

  “Dr. Vega briefed me moments ago,” Kelsey replied, “and the Attorney General just called and scheduled a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  “What’s the word, Sergeant Major?” Ariadna asked impatiently. “Are we going into Mexico with the FBI, or is TALON going in by itself? We’re standing by.”

  “Neither, Doctor,” Jefferson replied.

  “What? And let Zakharov get away? Are they crazy?”

  “The President wants you to stand down until we see what shakes out in Mexico.”

  “We’re not even going to ask Mexico to apprehend whoever was in those helicopters so we can question them?” DeLaine asked.

  “Your job is to make contact with the Mexican government and demand anything and everything you can think of to do this investigation, Miss Director,” Jefferson said. He paused for a moment; then: “ I’ll brief the Attorney General and get some warrants issued, but I want to operate under the assumption that the FBI will learn information as to the major’s or Zakharov’s whereabouts, but the Mexican government will balk rather than give us carte blanche to go in and get them. Ariadna, I want a plan drawn up to go into Mexico to get the major, the CID unit, and Zakharov, and I want you guys standing by.”

  “You got it, Sergeant Major.”

  “Work closely with Director DeLaine and get ready to act on whatever intelligence information you receive,” Jefferson said. “I want a plan from you to covertly send TALON to Mexico if we don’t get cooperation, but TALON stays out of the country until I give the word. Miss Director, who is your contact person for TALON now?”

  “I’m assigning my deputy assistant director for counterterrorism, Bruno Watts, to head up TALON,” Kelsey replied. “Bruno’s an ex–Navy SEAL, and he’s been pestering me for more info on TALON and to let him go back out into the field, so I just dumped all the TALON files on his desk and now he’s as happy as a pig in shit. His staff has been drawing up some plans if we need to go in on short notice to hunt for Zakharov, and I’ll shoot them over to you after I’ve gotten the briefing. What assets can we count on?”

  “For now, anything in the Mexican MOU that we don’t need permission to bring into the country.”

  “That’s not much, Sergeant Major,” DeLaine said. “Standard law enforcement equipment, vehicles, and aircraft—no weapons, no armored vehicles, no attack or covert ops aircraft, no unmanned aircraft, no surveillance equipment beyond ordinary cameras and voice recorders. Anything beyond that requires permission, and that takes time and a lot more political juice than I will ever possess.”

  “Unless Maravilloso and the Internal Affairs Ministry suddenly has a complete personality makeover, I definitely wouldn’t count on any special consideration here at all,” Jefferson concluded. He paused for a few moments, then: “I believe I read somewhere that the 58th Special Operations Wing at Kirtland Air Force Base near Albuquerque wanted to do some training out at the Pecos East training ranges near TALON’s home base,” he said. “They’re bringing a CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor, an HC-130 aerial refueler, and maybe an MC-130 Combat Shadow transport to practice some covert insertion procedures, possibly with ground and air enemy pursuing forces.”

  “Is that right?” Ari asked inquisitively. “I don’t recall being notified of any special ops guys wanting to use our ranges.”

  “I think if you check your recollection, ma’am, that they’ll be out that way later on today,” Jefferson deadpanned. He quickly typed out a message to his assistant on the computer terminal in front of him to get the commander of the 58th SOW on the telephone for him. “That might be a good time to get together with them and plan some joint training exercises with TALON and Director DeLaine’s Hostage Rescue Teams.”

  “What a great idea, Sergeant Major,” Ariadna said happily. “In all the co
nfusion, I must’ve missed it in my scheduler. We’ll be waiting for them.”

  SOUTH OF THE U.S.-MEXICO BORDER,

  NEAR RAMPART ONE, BOULEVARD, CALIFORNIA

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

  Sergeant Ed Herlihey finished his cup of coffee before it got cold, picked up his binocular night vision device, and carefully scanned the desert landscape to the south from just outside the front passenger seat of his Humvee. He saw nothing but a lone coyote, on the hunt just before bedding down for the day. That chap was safer out here than any other animals prowling the night, he thought.

  Things had been fairly quiet lately out on this stretch of desert east of Rampart One, the first dedicated border security base established by the U.S. military. He had seen fewer migrants out this way, although he knew that the National Guard presence had simply forced the migrants farther out into the remote desert sections of Arizona and New Mexico. But if he never ran into another poor migrant out here, half-dead from walking across the scorching desert to make it to his job in the United States, he would be very happy.

  “Flatbush Seven, Flatbush,” his radio crackled.

  Herlihey turned up the volume again and picked up the microphone. His driver, Private First Class Henry Stargell, briefly awoke but drifted quickly back to sleep. It was almost time for them to move to a different observation point anyway. Although he knew it was against the regs, Herlihey let Stargell nap so he would stay as sharp and alert as possible. This assignment was tough enough without having punchy soldiers driving expensive rigs out in the desert. He keyed the mike button: “Seven, go.”

  “The bird has a possible sighting east of your position, heading in your direction.” Herlihey copied down the grid coordinates of the contact as it was read to him. The “bird” referred to their unmanned aerial vehicle, an unarmed Predator drone being used for aerial reconnaissance. “Multiple individuals. No weapons observed.”

  “Copy all. On our way.” Herlihey punched in the grid coordinates of the contact into his GPS navigation computer and studied the high-resolution terrain contour map. “Okay, Hank, fire her up.” The young private could wake up and swing into action even faster than he could drop off to sleep, and within moments he had his night vision gear on and was following the navigation prompts. The Humvee was equipped with infrared headlights and an infrared searchlight that could illuminate the terrain for almost a mile but was invisible to anyone not wearing night vision equipment, so driving across the desert was fairly safe and easy.

  After about two miles, very close to the target coordinates, they came on a body lying in the desert. “Oh, shit, not another one,” Herhiley moaned. “That’s the second one on this shift alone.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Sarge,” Stargell said. “You got the last one.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Herlihey said. “Radio it in and send the bird on its way.”

  “Roger. Holler if you need any help.” Stargell picked up the microphone: “Flatbush, Seven, made contact with one individual at the target coordinates, looks like a DOA. Secure the bird and send a wagon.”

  “Wilco, Seven,” the company radio operator responded.

  Meanwhile, Herlihey went to the back of the Humvee and brought a duffel bag with the necessary items in it, first and foremost of which was a digital camera. Using a regular flashlight, he approached the body, snapping pictures every few paces. Stargell watched him from the cab of the Humvee for a few moments until Herlihey reached the body, then drifted off to sleep.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how long it was, but it seemed like only moments later when the radio blared to life again: “Flatbush Seven, Flatbush, how copy?”

  Stargell picked up the microphone: “Loud and clear, Flatbush. Go ahead.”

  “The Bravo wagon is on its way, ETE five mike.” Bravo was the National Guard’s shorthand for the Border Patrol. “Have you secured the scene yet?”

  “Stand by, Flatbush, and I’ll check with the sarge.” He stepped out of the Humvee and started toward where they had found the body. Herlihey was stooped over the body, which appeared to be that of a Hispanic woman. “Hey, Sarge, Control says the wagon is a couple minutes out and they want to…”

  Stargell froze in absolute horror. Herlihey was not stooped over the woman—he was on top of her, between her legs, with his BDU pants down around his knees. The woman was struggling to free herself. She had a rock in her left hand. Blood was streaming from the right side of Herlihey’s face, and he appeared to be unconscious. “Sarge!” he shouted. “What in hell did you do?”

  “¡Ayúdeme! ¡Este hombre trató de violarme!” the woman shouted when she heard Stargell. “¡Socorro!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Stargell exclaimed. He rushed over, grabbed Herlihey, and pulled him off the woman. Her dress was pulled up to her chest, the top of her dress was ripped apart, her panties were ripped off on one side, and her breasts exposed. The woman immediately tried to get to her feet, but she was too weak and scared to get up, so she tried crawling away. Stargell felt for a pulse and found one. “Sarge? Can you hear me? Are you okay?” He heard a moan and felt relieved.

  At that moment he saw a set of bouncing headlight beams coming toward them. The Border Patrol unit from Rampart One had arrived, bouncing quickly across the desert. Soon flashlight beams were heading in their direction. “Oh my God,” Stargell heard someone exclaim.

  “The sarge was clobbered over the head.”

  “What the fuck? Did he rape that woman?”

  “No…I mean, I didn’t see anything…”

  “God damn, Private, what the hell do you mean, you didn’t see anything?” the Border Patrol agent said angrily. “Your partner is out here in the desert right in front of your face and you didn’t see a thing?” He keyed a microphone clipped to his jacket. “Control, Unit Ten, I need a supervisor out here, and I need one now.”

  “What is your situation, Ten?” the duty officer responded.

  “I have a code ten-one-oh-six, signal thirty-five. Get a supervisor out here.”

  There was a short silence; then: “Say again, Ten? You have a signal thirty-five? Aren’t you foxtrot-one-one with a Rampart unit?”

  “Dammit, Control, just get a supervisor out here, right now. And stay off the air until we get this scene cleaned up. Out.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE FEDERAL DISTRICT, MEXICO CITY,

  MEXICO

  LATER THAT DAY

  “My fellow citizens of Mexico, I bid you peace and happiness,” the broadcast began. “My name is Ernesto Fuerza, but you know me by my nom de guerre, Comandante Veracruz. This message is being relayed to you through the broadcast studios of TV Azteca in Mexico City, courtesy of the owners and general manager of this station. I realize that they may be under some considerable danger from the government by allowing me to broadcast this message, but they have graciously given their consent to do so as long as possible, and I applaud their courage.”

  Fuerza shifted slightly, lowered his head, and touched the bandages covering the left side of his face, as if trying to ward off a sudden shiver of pain. He still wore his sunglasses and the bandanna on his head, but he was not wearing the bandanna normally covering his face, revealing a longer goatee than normal and a considerable darkening of the right side of his face as if caused by exposure to fire or intense heat. He wore desert camouflage fatigues similar to the U.S. Army’s standard day desert battle dress uniform, a tan undershirt, a tan web belt with a sidearm, and even a pouch resembling a carrier for night vision goggles or a gas mask.

  “Exactly what we have feared for so long has come true,” he said after a momentary pause. The pause was only a few seconds, but it spoke volumes on his condition—and it was of course all carefully caught on tape. “As a result of the warlike stance of the government of the United States and yesterday’s public call for armed aggression against the Mexican people by American right-wing radio personality Bob O’Rourke, a hideous and bloodthirsty crime was committed. Today, in the early morning
hours, a California National Guard soldier brutally attacked and sexually assaulted a Mexican woman in the desert east of the illegal border patrol base known as Rampart One. This action was obviously in retaliation for the accidental downing of an American helicopter yesterday.

  “As of this moment, the Americans have not released the woman or have even acknowledged that this crime took place,” Fuerza went on. “However, we have obtained radio scanner recordings of the incident that I will play for you now.” The recording was very short…and remarkably clear. “The Border Patrol agents use what are called ‘ten codes’ to confuse and disguise their messages, but fortunately they also publish the meanings of these codes on the Internet, which anyone can look up,” Fuerza explained. “A code ‘ten-one-oh-six’ is an officer involved in an incident; a ‘signal three-five’ is a rape or sexual assault; and a ‘foxtrot-one-one’ means providing assistance to an outside agency. The Americans cannot hide their crimes any longer—they have admitted their guilt with their own lips. You can obviously discern the disgust and horror of the Border Patrol agent’s voice as he reports what he has seen.

  “To my fellow Mexicans all around the world, but especially those living and working in the United States of America, I say to you today, this must not be allowed to stand,” Fuerza went on. “That poor woman, raped by American soldiers in the desert, was simply trying to go to her place of work, where she probably earns less than a fourth of what other workers earn simply because she is undocumented. She did not deserve to be attacked like this. She deserved respect, a decent wage, and protections guaranteed to any other person living in the United States, protections that are a God-given right as well as guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States.

  “I call on every Mexican person in the United States who is working without documentation to leave your place of work right now. Yes, you have heard me correctly: I want you to leave your place of work immediately. Why give the Americans the fruits of your labor and then be treated no better than a cheap whore? Why slave fourteen to eighteen hours a day in their fields for pennies, and then be afraid for your lives and your family’s welfare every other hour of the day?