Arabs throughout the region were holding massive rallies in support of ‘hitting America on the nose’. Concerns were spreading through Europe, especially in the highly charged and ethnically diverse cities of Belgium and France. Large Arab immigrant populations there held support rallies for the mujahedeen freedom fighters who struck all of America blind in one fell swoop.
"Israel’s Prime Minister today condemned the attacks in America in the strongest language and expressed pity towards anyone who would find joy in such misery. His speech has sparked a new rise in tension between Israel and its Arab neighbors.
"Egypt, still struggling to shape its own government years after the infamous Revolt of 2011, has claimed Israel is looking for a fight and complained to the U.N. Most observers expect that the Palestinian threat to bring a new wave of terror against Israel is not hollow and both sides are preparing for conflict.
"Israel just this afternoon has promised to retaliate with overwhelming firepower should any attacks occur. The rhetoric entwined in this ageless conflict appears to ratchet up by the hour. Many believe that once taken to a certain level neither side can back down without losing political face. The only question is when, or if, the point of no return will be reached.
"Through it all, the shadow of America's troubles spreads across the globe. Would the Palestinians be rattling sabers at this moment if they knew the United States stood by Israel's side? Perhaps. In this journalist's mind, they would have very likely done so anyway—perhaps without such vigor, but the entire area is already so unstable it is likely nothing will in the end, prevent a full scale war the people in the Middle East seem determined to bring upon themselves.
"For now, it seems, the entire world is watching and waiting to see what America will do. Is this the much anticipated collapse of the Great Satan? Or will America bounce back, yet again, to become stronger and more unified than ever? Only time will tell," droned the voice from Great Britain.
Then came the news that the President had declared a national emergency and split the government up to secret locations in an effort to protect the highest elected officials in the land from future terror attacks. The reporter sounded real scared, Erik noticed. Something like this had not happened since the Cold War.
Erik pondered what the President knew and why he would take the drastic action of enforcing Continuity of Government. It might send an incorrect signal around the world that the United States was running scared and getting itself backed into a corner. However, Erik fervently hoped it was a move designed to bolster national defense rather than desperation.
Having nothing further to add to America’s woes, the reporter then commented on the sharp fall in the London Stock Exchange and the crash of the Japanese markets overnight. Through it all, only one nation seemed to emerge unscathed. The Chinese markets, while shaken, had not seen a collapse like most of the other major markets around the world.
"Well, I'm glad someone is profiting from all this mess," Erik said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. He clicked off the radio with an irritated flip of his wrist.
International affairs didn’t concern him so much right now. China could make all the money it wanted, for all he cared. Right now he had to figure out what to do. He and Brin certainly couldn’t just sit here and wait for…whatever…to happen. Questions rolled through his mind, inviting him to decide on a course of action.
Will the riots last long? Either way, they’re far away, not really an immediate concern. What about the power loss? He and Brin were stocked and ready.
But for how long? Others would be finding out soon how not being prepared would affect their lives. It was an acute heightened sense of responsibility that he felt pressing down on his shoulders that morning. He’d never felt anything like it before—it was almost crushing.
If he had a gun, he would strap it on now. Instead, he did the next best thing and found his K-Bar. He had found it in a pawn shop years ago. The guy behind the counter said it had last been used in World War II. The combat knife had a 7” blade with a half-serrated spine would be good enough to stop just about any threat dead in its tracks, or open cans or pound in nails or do any of a number of less dramatic tasks.
That was the beauty of his workhorse knife. Once it was securely strapped to his leg, he went into the guest bedroom closest and found his bokken, a wooden training sword that was in the shape of a Japanese katana, the sword of the samurai.
Ever since he had taken his first Japanese History class in college, Erik had been utterly fascinated by Japanese culture. He had learned iaido from Brin's grandfather and took his lessons to heart. Since moving to Florida, five days a week he could be seen in the southwest corner of the apartment complex, swinging his bokken in highly controlled slashing moves called a kata.
To the casual observer, it appeared as if Erik was simply spinning and slashing, back stepping and swinging a stick in the air. He looked for all the world like some kid having a mock-fight with his imaginary friend. In his mind's eye, the world and all its newfound troubles did not exist
beyond the range of his sword.
ARIZONA
The Regulators
ROB GUNN PUT down his dusty binoculars and sighed. Everything was dusty. Dust or ash, one or the other. The wildfires were beginning to eat into the Coronado National Forest. The latest rumor had it that they were intentionally set and without TV or radio, who was to say it wasn’t?
He pushed back the brim of his well-worn Stetson with a leather gloved hand and looked over his shoulder. A ways back and to his left lay his buddy Lance Bryton, decked out in similar clothing. Rancher’s clothes: dusty old jeans, well-used work shirt, work gloves, boots, and hat. Where Rob chose his old Stetson for the cowboy look, Lance went with a battered John Deere cap, faded greens and yellows almost lost with wear.
Both men were just behind the crest of a ridge in the southern Arizona highlands, a few miles west of Nogales, sweating already in the mid-morning heat. To the northeast of Nogales, a wide black and gray bruise on the horizon betrayed the location of the forest fires.
Situated right on the border with Mexico, Nogales had a long history of immigration—and immigration troubles. The Coronado National Forest straddled either side of the dusty little border town. As a result, there was plenty of open range for anyone wanting to enter the U.S. illegally. Rob frowned. All you had to do was just walk on through.
That was, until the last few years of the 1990s. A group of patriotic men, some land owners, some suburbanites—American all—banded together. This group of men had but one purpose, on which they were focused like a laser. They ignored the ridicule in the media, they ignored the protests by the ACLU and they turned their backs on fellow citizens who called them racists and war-mongers. They wanted to assist the bungling government in stemming the tide of illegal immigration. Someone had to do something and their rallying cry became, If not now, then when? If not us, then who?
They were called the Arizona Regulators.
The Regluators were privately funded by donations from each member, and donations from like-minded individuals in Santa Cruz County, Arizona. There were a few large donations made from conservatives across the country and many of the men had hopes those numbers would grow. Some lived as far away as Tucson but came south when it was their shift to patrol the border. Most of the core Regulators lived on ranches in or around Nogales. It was their land that was being overrun and they had been the first to propose a pooling of resources for the common good.
The Regulators made national news from time to time with press coverage of their unmanned aerial vehicle, a copy of the military’s UAV spy plane, built from scrap parts and household items. The radio controlled plane cost $5,000 compared to the military’s multi-million dollar bird, had comparable flight performance and a high tech digital camera and video system to boot. They could send the UAV up for hours and spot potential illegal aliens miles away. Border Patrol agents drooled with envy, yet often bristled when the Regulators
came calling, dragging in illegal aliens. The Regulators had proven time and time again that they could do a better job than the government for a fraction of the cost. Support among the civilian population grew by word of mouth. They didn’t advertise what they were doing. They simply did it. The locals loved them for it when the crime rate began to drop as illegal immigrants sought easier ways into America. Before long, the ranks of the Regulators began to swell and donations poured in. They were the hometown heroes.
Each man was armed with his own weapons. Some had state of the art, expensive semi-automatic rifles. Others had top of the line hunting rifles. Some used old cowboy weapons: single action revolvers and old lever action long guns. In five years of operation, they had only fired weapons three times and then only to scare, never to injure. They took pride in that accomplishment.
In total, they had assisted in the deportation of thousands of illegal aliens back across the border into Mexico. It was a drop in the bucket, yes, but each year, each month, each week, that drop grew a little bigger as their men gained more experience and their numbers grew.
Every time Regulators went out on patrol, either in 4x4s, trucks or on horses, they rounded up at least a few Mexicans seeking a better life illegally. They were captured and transported—at their own expense—to the Border Patrol, with never a ‘thank you’ offered. Despite the word from Washington to stop playing as border patrol agents, the Regulators continued to do their self-assigned job. If Washington could ignore the plight of Americans on the border, then the Regulators would ignore Washington's demands.
The community was ever grateful at the expenses saved—no housing needed for transient immigrants, no programs for illegal immigrants to get food and water or education and health care or driver’s licenses as they did in California. It was routine for the Regulators to find baked goods or monetary donations offered as a humble ‘thank you’ from the local towns. When the Regulators were out on patrol, fellow Regulators, or even the townsfolk would band together to look after families left behind for week long 'tours'.
Elsewhere along the border in Santa Cruz County, illegal’s were still getting in, but their numbers were no longer rising unchecked. Other counties were considering the same solution. But it was a never-ending task. And without help from state and local governments, the Regulators faced an uphill battle with the odds against them. There were infinitely more Mexicans willing to risk the dangerous passage than there were American Patriots willing to defend their own land.
Rob Gunn and Lance Bryton were two such Patriots, willing to sacrifice their time and resources for the good of their county and country. When the power went out, Rob had called out the boys and went out on indefinite patrol. It made sense; no one had a job to go back to for the foreseeable future and it kept the men busy. Enough men stayed behind in town to watch over things and to lend a hand to the local cops who were sure to need help soon.
As the days passed and word got out over the only local radio station still operating that race riots had started in the larger cities, the Regulators went on high alert. Suddenly the day-to-day task of rounding up Mexicans took on a new importance. There was a growing fear in the county that the illegals would get bolder and bolder, the more they learned of the trouble America was facing. What better time to pack up the kids and slip across the border? No one would be looking—except the Regulators.
Rob pushed a branch of sage brush out of his line of sight and peered down the dusty, rock strewn hill towards the path leading to Mexico. He and Lance were the center two-man team of the day. There were other units of Regulators, spread out east and west of Rob and Lance along their stretch of the border. The Regulators had concealed positions dug into the hillsides and ravines for miles. The Mexicans never knew they were being watched all along the border of Santa Cruz County.
Lance checked his watch and pulled out his GMRS two way-radio. “Three, this is One, you read?”
After a slight pause, a whispered voice came back over Rob’s earpiece. “Yeah, One, this is Three…you got any your way?"
Lance looked slightly up the ridge to Rob, who held up four gloved fingers. Rob turned back to his binoculars and let Lance call in the report, listening in on his own earpiece.
“Yeah, Three. We have four, repeat four tangos,” replied Lance behind him in a low voice.
“Hang on, One…” replied Team Three’s radioman, John Sellson. “Getting a message from Five—they have ten, repeat, ten tangos inbound.”
Rob thought for a second. Team Five was Ed and George, the Franks brothers. They were about a mile to the east. Ten Mexicans coming in there, four towards us, he mused.
Whoever was in charge of the center team for the day was de facto field commander. That put Rob in charge. Lance quickly checked down the line to see if any other Teams had Mexicans trying to cross the border. Everyone else reported in the same—no Mexicans. Lance got back on the radio after two static bursts to clear the channel, “Three, get on the horn and pass the word to Six and Seven—tell ‘em to move and regroup at Team Five’s position…copy?”
“Copy that—I’ll get ‘em movin,” replied John’s voice.
“Okay, we’re going to rustle up our group and drive ‘em to Five, then we’ll take all of them to Nogales.”
“Copy that, see you at Five, One. Three out.”
Lance belly crawled up the ridgeline next to Rob and grinned. "How's it goin' up here?"
“Good. Looks like our lot is heading towards Five on their own…guess we’ll follow,” said Rob, eyes still glued to binoculars watching the bedraggled immigrants trudge their way through the hot landscape. The tiny figures had slowly turned towards the east to run parallel with the imposing ridgeline that ran along the border.
After an hour or so of trailing the Mexicans, the Regulators figured out that the two Mexican groups were actually one—they were meeting at a point just across the Mexican border from Team Five. When all the would-be immigrants had gathered together, the Regulators could easily see they were friends of some sort, perhaps family. There was much hugging and talking and crying among the immigrants. Mostly young men, but a few women and two children in tow.
The assembled Regulators took stock of the situation and figured the easiest thing to do would be to set up an ambush and warn the Mexicans off, send ‘em packing for Mexico. After all, they weren’t likely to get a warm welcome from the Border Patrol today, not after all the hell that had broken loose recently.
John was adamant about taking the Mexicans to the Feds regardless of the situation. “It’s what we’ve always done—it’s the only right thing to do. We don’t want any trouble from the Feds right now, boys. Look at what they’re facing—they’re liable to be awful antsy. We shouldn’t tempt ‘em to come after us.”
Ed Frank grinned as he leaned against a boulder under an outcropping, enjoying the shady respite from the sun. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Sellson. We don't want to kill 'em. Just drive 'em off." A few of the men chuckled.
Rob spoke up then, taking off his Stetson to wipe his brow. “Well John, if we take ‘em in, they’ll probably be let loose. You honestly think the Feds got time to deal with fourteen Mexicans right now? Hell, the border’s probably closed up tight. They might just suspect us of terrorism for bein’ armed!”
Most of the men agreed with Rob. “If you think we’re going to be able to rely on the Feds from this point on, yer dreamin', John. George, you know I’m right.” The two brothers nodded. “If it’s as bad out there as them radio jocks say it is…well, Uncle Sam is gonna have a lot more trouble to worry about than us scaring off a few tangos." More nervous chuckles. Most of the men looked to their weapons, absently brushing off dust or checking chambers. Rob continued. "Now, I say we ambush ‘em, scare ‘em, let ‘em know they’re not welcome, and tell ‘em to leave.”
The men agreed. John rose his voice and spoke over the general chatter. “But what happens if they’re not scared. What happens if they cross the border and
keep coming? We gonna hog tie ‘em and take ‘em to the Border Patrol then?”
“Hey! We got a truck headin’ our way! Looks like it’s chock full!” came the frantic voice of their lookout, posted higher up the ridgeline to get a better view of the Mexican terrain. The assembled Regulators scrambled up the back side of the slope and reached the crest to see for their own eyes. Sure enough, a large, beat-up dusty red truck was racing down the dirt road that paralleled the border, heading for the knot of Mexicans directly across from the Regulators.
“Where in the hell did he come from?” asked Lance to no one in particular.
“Detroit, I’d say. That’s an old Ford…” muttered Ed Frank.
"Smartass," mumbled Lance.
“I see fresh bullet holes in the right front panel,” mumbled Rob, ignoring Ed’s jest. “I bet he just came from the border at Nogales.”
“How can you tell they’re fresh?” asked Lance, laying prone on the ground next to Rob.
“There’s a wounded one in the bed of that truck—“ called out the lookout from above.
“I see ‘im. Look at the blood! Somebody just shot at that fella,” confirmed John, looking through his own binoculars.
“Shit. They must have come from the border. Looks like it’s definitely locked up. Feds probably shot at ‘em to drive ‘em off,” remarked Rob. He had the feeling that this encounter was not going to go down well.
“They’re pulling up to the group…talking..” called out the lookout from the top of the ridge, some twenty feet away. He had his hunting rifle aimed at the group and was using the high powered rifle scope to keep watch over the situation.
“Quit yelling, everyone. Switch to radios,” ordered Lance.
“Alright boys, you know the drill, let’s get a U-shape trap set up. Teams Two through Five, you take the left, Six through Nine, you take the right. Ten, you stay in the middle with us. Just like last week. Everyone got it?” asked Rob.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 12