Edge of Battle (36 page)

“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 confusion, I must’ve missed it in my scheduler. We’ll be waiting for them.”

S
OUTH OF THE
U.S.-M
EXICO BORDER
,
NEAR
R
AMPART
O
NE
, B
OULEVARD
, C
ALIFORNIA
E
ARLY 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.”

T
HE
F
EDERAL
D
ISTRICT
, M
EXICO
C
ITY
,
M
EXICO
L
ATER 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?

“I understand that you are afraid of deportation and losing your jobs, but I am here to tell you, my brothers and sisters, that when enough of you abandon the fields, workplaces, homes, and slums of America, and ordinary Americans must pick up your tools and clean their own homes and pick their own crops, the Americans will
beg
for you to return. America has stood on your backs long enough—it is time for them to realize exactly how important you are to their economy and their way of life.

“I know you will be in fear of retribution for your act of defiance. Many spiteful Americans will lash out at you just because they are powerless to do anything about what you will do. You must protect yourself and your family at all times. Do not fight with the government authorities or police, but use every means at your disposal to defend yourself from vigilantes, criminals, and angry citizens.

“Soon, the authorities will be unable to handle the sheer vastness of your numbers. They will not be able to merely pile you into a bus and drive you across the border; you will not be inhumanely ‘processed’ as before because there will be too many for them to handle. But more important, they will soon learn that their economy, their industry, and their way of life cannot continue without
you. They will soon realize that the best way to deal with the loss of your valuable labor is to formulate a fair foreign worker policy that guarantees you all legal rights, a fair wage, education and health care for your children, and eventually citizenship for those who desire it. Not only will they be unable to stop you—they will be unable to deal with you, except as the valuable, indispensable, vital human beings you are. They will quickly realize that their only recourse will be to offer you more than what you receive now. It will certainly not be more than you deserve.

“I promise you, the Mexican government will do everything it can possibly do to guarantee your safety while you are in the United States, and will make you as secure and comfortable as possible upon your return to Mexico. I ask that you report to the nearest
futbol
stadium upon your return to Mexico. There, the Ministry of Internal Affairs will take down your personal information, conduct a medical examination, arrange for temporary shelter for transportation home.

“My friends and fellow Mexicans, I know you chose to leave your homeland to try to find a better life for yourselves and your family—that is the way of all hardworking Mexicans,” Fuerza said. “But after over a hundred years of hard work and struggle, is your life any better now than it was for your father or grandfather? Hispanics make up the majority of residents in California, but do we have any more rights than we did as mere aliens, migrants, or Chicanos? Our lives have not changed because we are treated the same as our forefathers were treated decades ago: at best as underpaid workers who should feel privileged to be allowed to work like virtual slaves; at worst as criminal trespassers who should be rounded up like cattle and dumped back across the border, no matter how hard we work.

“My brothers and sisters, I do not know what will happen to us when you leave your place of work and try to make your way back to Mexico,” Fuerza concluded. “But what I do know is that if we do nothing as a people to correct the injustices against us, our lot in life will never change. I want something better for my children
and my future than to live in perpetual servitude to an ungrateful, uncaring, and increasingly hostile nation such as the United States of America has become. We cannot wait any longer for the Anglo politicians to act. We have the power to do something; we always have had it. Our labor has value,
real
value, not what the greedy slave labor capitalists give us. It is time the people of the United States of America realize this.

“I will continue to monitor both our government and the American government and media and report to you the progress we make during this historic movement, and I will do everything I can to make this transition as safe and as hopeful as possible. There will be sacrifice, let there be no doubt. But your sacrifice will be rewarded with a better life for you and a better future for your children. God bless the people, and God bless the United Mexican States.”

A few minutes after checking that the message had been successfully uplinked to TV Azteca studios in Mexico City, Fuerza sat silently, cueing up the digital recording of his message almost to the beginning. As he did so, he heard a commotion outside, and he unfastened the holster’s safety catch, but did not get up. Moments later a security guard opened the door to the office…

…and behind him walked the president of Mexico, Carmen Maravilloso. The president stopped dead in her tracks, shocked and surprised at what she saw—so shocked that she did not even notice Ministry of Internal Affairs deputy minister José Elvarez and two of his men already inside the room, all carrying small submachine guns under their suit jackets, along with a tall, large, imposing man in a long black leather overcoat, boots, and sunglasses seated in a corner of the office. Once inside, two agents departed while Elvarez stayed inside the office and guarded the door.

“You!”
she exclaimed. She was so shocked at seeing the infamous Comandante Veracruz before her that she hardly noticed herself being led into the room, the door closed and locked behind her. Her voice was not angry or upset, just surprised—in fact,
rather
pleasantly
surprised. She heard herself say, “I have wanted to meet you for some time, señor, but it is not yet safe for you. What are you doing here?”

“Issuing more instructions to the faithful patriots of Mexico, Madam President,” Fuerza said. He started the recording and let her listen to it; when he saw that she was getting ready to explode with indignation and anger, he stopped the tape. “You agree with my sentiments, do you not, Madam President?”

“You have no right to speak for the government, señor,” Maravilloso said worriedly. “What kind of plan is this? Tell our people to just
leave?
Thousands, perhaps
millions
of people will be homeless and penniless. They will be targets of racists and xenophobes, not to mention the American immigration authorities, who will round up and detain everyone heading south.”

“I am hoping that is
exactly
what they try to do,” Fuerza said. “They will quickly be overwhelmed and will commence mass deportations…”

“Which
we
will then have to absorb,” Maravilloso said. “Once they are no longer America’s problem, the issue will evaporate.”

“Except for the thousands of American employers, farmers, and households who will be screaming for the return of their cheap laborers,” Fuerza said. “Trust me, Madam President: the American government will be calling you in no time, wishing to issue a joint statement promising immigration simplification, a relaxation of immigrant worker rules, greatly increased allocations of work visas, better pay for immigrant workers, and a host of other reforms.”

“You sound very well informed and very sure of yourself—for a drug and weapon smuggler,” Maravilloso said. She stepped closer to Fuerza, studying him carefully. “Who are you really, señor?” she asked. “Obviously you wear a disguise, and I would even guess that you are not injured and your bandages are
part
of your disguise.”

Fuerza stood and approached the president. She did not want to show any fear, but she glanced over to be sure the men of the
Political Police were nearby and ready to protect her. “You are indeed a very beautiful woman, Madam President,” he said.

“Gracias, Comandante,”
she responded. She looked deeply into Fuerza’s uncovered eye, shaking from both fear and delight at the same time. “I…I think you are a great man, a true inspiration to the people of Mexico. But your words are dangerous, señor. Won’t you consider changing that recording?”

“I can deny you nothing, Madam President…”

“Carmen. Please call me Carmen, señor.”

“Carmen. Your name is as beautiful and as powerful as the woman herself.” He stepped closer. His first touch was electrifying, but his kiss was a million-volt charge running up and down her spine. The fear was still there, but his passion, his fire, was like a narcotic, rushing through her…

And then she froze, opened her eyes, and saw Fuerza smiling at her, and he saw the realization dawn in her eyes—she knew that she had willingly fallen into a trap she had suspected was there all along. Her lips curled into a snarl, her eyes blazed with white-hot anger, and her fingers became claws, tearing away at the bandages covering his face.

“This is why I love you so much, Carmen,” Minister of Internal Affairs Felix Díaz said, grasping her wrists. “You are so fiery, so passionate—and so damned predictable.” He pushed her away roughly, right into the arms of two Political Police
Sombras
agents behind her, who held her arms tightly. Díaz removed his bandanna and started to undo the bandages on his face. “You made it so easy for me to execute my plan.”

“I
knew
it, Díaz,” she snapped, struggling to regain her composure and regain the upper hand here. “I always knew it! You were too nice to be a politician, and I was too blind or too stupid to notice.”

“You were too busy posing for
Paris Match
and
People
magazine and screwing me on your desk, Carmen.”

“Bastard!”
She jerked her arms free of the agents holding her,
then reached down to her wristwatch and pressed the hidden alert button on the back.

“The alarm works, Carmen,” Díaz said casually, “but only my men are stationed outside—and do not forget that it is
my
men that protect the Federal District. No one will respond here unless I authorize it.”

“Puto!”
Maravilloso screamed. “I suspected from the day we first met that you were not just some milquetoast rich boy with delusions of grandeur. I should have seen through the disguise long ago.” She looked around the room, hoping that one of the agents would come to her rescue, but knowing that was never going to happen. Her attention was drawn to a man in a seat in the corner, watching all that transpired with an amused smile on his face. “Who is that man?”