Edge of Battle

by Dale Brown

  “Technologically, I know we can do it—the question is, do we have the political will to do it? You will hear that illegal immigrants do work that Americans don’t want to do.” Again the sound of the trap snapping shut. “O’Rourke says ‘hogwash’! Farm owners prefer immigrant labor because they’re cheap, plentiful, work in absurdly deplorable conditions, and don’t complain or cause trouble for fear of deportation. If farmworkers were paid an honest wage instead of a slave laborer’s wage, more Americans would do those jobs, or the farm owners would modernize their equipment and procedures to make farming even more efficient and profitable. Any higher costs would just be passed along to consumers anyway, where the market would then dictate prices—but undoubtedly unemployment would go down in the meantime.

  “You will hear that politicians don’t like legislating against illegal immigrants because it will anger ethnic voters.” Snap! “Again, O’Rourke says ‘hogwash’! Legal immigrants and naturalized citizens oppose illegal immigration just as much as native-born citizens do because illegals are breaking the law—which hurts everyone—paints them with the same bigoted, racist, xenophobic brush as the illegals, and diminishes all the efforts they’ve made to come into this country legally.”

  O’Rourke paused for a few breaths, then went on: “I know a lot of you are advocating a guest worker program. Say what? A what worker program?” Snap! “Bullpies! I won’t even consider a guest worker program until every last man and woman in this country who wants a job has a job, and that’ll be a long, long time in coming, my friends. Don’t you dare try to sugarcoat the issue by telling me that Mexicans do jobs that Americans won’t do! Illegals have done those jobs because farmers and other employers would rather pay them a few pennies an hour rather than what a worker is legally entitled to. Pay an honest wage for an honest day’s work and you won’t need to hire slave labor to do the work.

  “And don’t you dare try to call it a guest worker program, as if the illegals will leave when we ask them to and won’t come back unless we invite them. Calling someone a ‘guest’ implies that we want these people to enter our country. We can’t have it both ways, my friends. We can’t demand sovereign, secure borders, no risk of terror attacks, and no risk of skyrocketing costs associated with providing public services to illegals, and then ask for allowing undocumented, untraceable persons the right to legally enter the country and work. Trading security for comfort and convenience is not the answer.

  “Step three is the stick: anyone found violating immigration laws risks detainment, not just deportment. Anyone caught without proper proof of citizenship is sent to a detainment facility to await administrative processing and deportment. These detention camps are minimum security, minimum amenity facilities—the persons detained are not there for rest and relaxation, but to await deportation, in which the length of time they are detained depends on the size of the facility, the number of judges assigned to work the cases, and the number of detainees. Multiple violators face federal jail time. Children born in a detainment facility are not considered U.S. citizens. If they must lose wages because they go to a detention camp every time they’re caught without a guest worker permit, or if their offspring are denied citizenship, maybe they’ll think twice before trying to sneak across the border.

  “I see Fonda rolling her eyes at me already,” O’Rourke said. This time, his little bit of radio theatrics was right on—she was rolling her eyes at him. Although Kent knew about today’s topic and was ready for the onslaught of calls, even she looked at O’Rourke with a bit of trepidation. The phone lines were beginning to light up, and she knew that not everyone was going to want to talk with the host. The angry but radio-shy among them would scream at her instead, and she really hated that—it was her job, of course, but she still hated it. “I can hear the politicians in California calling me a racist and likening all this to Japanese internment camps in the 1940s. Folks, there’s no doubt that those camps were born of mass hysteria and xenophobia—every man or woman after Pearl Harbor with sloped eyes was a Jap spy. That was racism, and that was wrong.

  “Here’s O’Rourke’s bottom line: those found illegally entering the United States are criminals. At best they are trespassers, flouting our laws and taking money and services from legal citizens. At worst, they could be terrorists, murderers, rapists, and vandals. This is unacceptable. This madness has got to stop. Are you listening, Washington? Are you listening, President Conrad?”

  O’Rourke looked up and saw Fand with her hands upraised in surrender, and a quick glance at the computer screen told him why: the switchboard was completely full. “All right, you people, I’ve ranted enough. The lines are jammed, so keep your comments short and sweet and let everyone have a chance to voice an opinion. America is once again under siege, not only by illegal immigrants but now by terrorists sneaking across the border with the illegals. We’re talking about illegal immigration and what the Conrad administration must do about it right now. I’m Bob O’Rourke—welcome to The Bottom Line. Let’s get it on—right after this commercial message. Stay right there.”

  THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THAT SAME TIME

  “That rat bastard!” the President of the United States, Samuel Conrad, thundered as he exited his private study adjacent to the Oval Office. “Who does that guy think he is? He doesn’t know anything except what some hack reporter puts out over the wires. Somebody save me from the know-it-alls in the world.”

  The President’s National Security Adviser, Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson, U.S. Army, had just walked into the Oval Office when the President finished his tirade. The President’s Chief of Staff, Thomas F. Kinsly, was fixing the President a cup of coffee—decaf, Jefferson hoped—and he immediately made his way over to fix himself a cup. The White House had the best coffee in the world, Jefferson learned, but the Oval Office stuff seemed even better, and he never failed to grab a cup when he could.

  Ray Jefferson took his coffee, stepped back behind the sofa in the little meeting area of the Oval Office—and almost seemed to disappear from sight. That was his favorite of all his many talents learned over almost three decades in the military: the ability to seem insignificant, blend into his surroundings, and look completely disarming. He was of just over average height, wiry, with short dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to reflect his mood at any given moment: they could be light and friendly one moment, dark and angry the next, but they were sharp and rarely missed anything. His ability to stand perfectly still, listen, and observe people and events around him had always served him well, and even more so now in his rough and tumble political role as the President of the United States’ National Security Adviser.

  Thomas Kinsly, the President’s White House Chief of Staff, was everything Jefferson was not. Like the former Chief of Staff Victoria Collins, Kinsly was another one of the President’s close friends; a successful fund-raiser, and political organizer and operative, he was an expert at networking and strategizing but had almost no experience working with entrenched Washington bureaucrats and politicians with their own agendas—even Ray Jefferson, a soldier since age seventeen, was more politically astute than Kinsly. He was younger than his predecessor, tall, dark, and good-looking, well spoken and affable with the media, but known as hard-charging and relentless with his staffers. Kinsly had made it clear early on that Jefferson was not, and probably would never be, a member of the inner circle.

  Fine with him, Jefferson told himself early on. He didn’t have to kiss ass to get access to the highest seats of power in the free world.

  “There you are, Sergeant Major,” the President said, finally noticing his National Security Adviser’s presence even though he had been there for a while. Samuel Conrad was tall, gray-haired, and distinguished-looking—a photo-perfect figure of the chief executive. After graduating from Rutgers University with a degree in accounting and then Rutgers School of Law, almost his entire professional life had been in public service: two t
erms in the New Jersey legislature, two terms in the U.S. House of Representatives, two years in the White House Budget Office, four years as Undersecretary of the Treasury, two terms as the governor of New Jersey, two years in the White House Chief of Staff’s office, and one term in the U.S. Senate before reaching the Oval Office. He was normally unflappable and in control—this was the first time in Jefferson’s recollection that he ever saw the President in the Oval Office with so much as his tie loosened, let alone with a raised voice.

  Jefferson didn’t care much for politicians or bean counters, but he felt an obligation to this President as a way to make up for the death and destruction caused by Jefferson’s old boss, the previous National Security Adviser to the President, who betrayed and almost killed the President and who was responsible for the deaths of thousands before he was finally stopped. Anything that got this President so angry had to be serious.

  Jefferson waited to see if the President would explain what the shouting was about, but that was not yet forthcoming. “Any updates on the Border Patrol killings last night, Ray?” the President asked.

  “Just what Director DeLaine sent over from the Bureau about an hour ago, sir,” Ray replied. “No new leads. These guys were pros—I reject Secretary Lemke’s theory that it was a turf war between smuggler gangs.”

  “Why?”

  “Pistols and shotguns, maybe—but AK-47s put these guys several steps above the average smuggler,” Jefferson replied. “Plus the evidence of body armor. These guys were professional soldiers.”

  “Your analysis, then?”

  “Same as this morning’s briefing, sir—it was an infiltration by a heavily armed and trained commando squad, similar to what we encountered with the Consortium,” Jefferson replied. The energy monopoly–turned terrorist organization known as the Consortium, secretly led by now-deceased former National Security Adviser to the President of the United States, Robert Chamberlain, had been held responsible for the terror attacks in Houston, San Francisco, and Washington. Despite the efforts of hundreds of law enforcement agencies around the world, the organization was believed still in operation, now led by ex–Russian oil oligarch Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov. “Could even be another Consortium infiltration: Zakharov looking to even the score and sending in troops via a different, more established—and frankly, highly successful—route. I’d consider using human smugglers to bring my terrorist forces into the U.S. if I wanted to sneak in: chances are better than five-to-one I’d make it.”

  The President nodded, then picked up a briefing folder. “I read your recommendations about this ‘Operation Rampart’ project, Sergeant Major. Lots of tough love in here.” He saw Jefferson’s eyes narrow, and the piercing glare made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Something on your mind, Ray? Let’s hear it.”

  “I’d appreciate it, sir, if you tell me flat out what you think of my plan,” Jefferson said. “‘Tough love’ doesn’t tell me a thing.”

  “That’s out of line, Jefferson,” Kinsly snapped.

  The President raised a hand toward his Chief of Staff, then tossed the folder back on his desk. “I’ve gotta learn to be more direct with you, Sergeant Major,” he said. He motioned to the memo. “Let me get this straight, Ray: you want to put an entire Army division on the border?”

  “I proposed forming a task force which would be about division-sized—about twenty thousand troops, including Army and Air Force aviation reconnaissance, logistics, and communications support assets, sir,” Jefferson explained. “I recommend Reserves or National Guard units instead of active-duty forces, each working in their own home state—it might give them a little added incentive to do a better job.”

  “And you expect them to completely seal off the southern border?” Kinsly asked.

  “It wouldn’t be one hundred percent, Mr. Kinsly, but it would be a hell of a lot better than what we have now.” He turned to the President. “Sir, the military as you know is legally prohibited from performing law enforcement duties, but they can assist law enforcement, and already do on a regular basis. Let’s step up surveillance along the borders and see if the level of illegal border crossings is on the increase, then interdict some of these migrants and find out who they are—migrant workers, illegal immigrants, or in fact terrorists. That’s the real question we’re facing here, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean, Ray?”

  “I mean, if those Border Patrol agents were gunned down by a few stoned, desperate, or rambunctious migrant farmworkers with itchy trigger fingers, nothing more will be done about it,” Jefferson said. “But if on the other hand it was some kind of terror group infiltrating through our southern borders, and they retaliated to prevent being discovered or captured, we should retaliate with everything we got.

  “If you want to secure the borders and try to prevent what happened last night, sir, let’s do it,” Jefferson went on resolutely. “In my opinion the Border Patrol is not up to the task—in fact, the entire Customs and Border Protection Service is not equipped to secure the borders. They’re a law enforcement unit, not a security one. I’m sure they’ve upgraded their weapons and tactics over the years, but in my mind they’re still the guys on horseback and in pickup trucks cruising the desert looking for Chicanos sneaking into America. The military knows surveillance and reconnaissance the best—let them do their jobs.”

  “Putting the military in a law enforcement function is against the law, Sergeant Major.”

  “This tasking is not a violation of the Posse Comitatus Act,” Jefferson responded. “I still believe we should be working to repeal Posse Comitatus, but in case it’s not repealed this operation would not violate it. The military would serve a surveillance and interdiction role only, the same as they do with antidrug smuggling operations—the Border Patrol, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, FBI, customs, or state or local law enforcement would make the arrests and conduct the investigations. We can start immediately and have it completed in less than six months.”

  “Six months?”

  “Secure a mostly open three-thousand-mile border of the United States from illegal entry by groups of persons or undeclared, unidentified vehicles? Yes, sir,” Jefferson said. “It’ll take manpower and technology, but most importantly it’ll take strong backing by the federal, state, and local governments and support from the citizens. But it can be done. A combination of strategic and tactical reconnaissance and rapid-reaction forces strung out across the border, similar to what the Coast Guard and Customs Service do along American waters and ports.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to war here, Sergeant,” Kinsly said.

  “It’s ‘Sergeant Major,’ Mr. Kinsly, not ‘Sergeant,’” Jefferson said, affixing a warning glare and voice inflection that were not so subtle as to be overlooked by the Chief of Staff. “Large numbers of unidentified, heavily armed gunmen coming across the border and killing Americans—it sounds like war to me too, sir.” To the President he said, “If you want action, sir, this is what it’ll take, in my best estimation. I can’t guarantee a few terrorists or illegals won’t slip through, but with proper backup and support from state and local agencies I think we can get the job done.”

  The President remained silent, which prompted Kinsly to press his arguments even more. “You want plain talk, Sergeant Major? I believe your plan would be a political disaster,” Kinsly said, emphasizing the words “sergeant major” sarcastically enough to elicit another warning glare. “It would outrage Hispanics, liberal politicians, human and civil rights groups, the Mexican government, the governors of the border states, and probably several dozen other groups I haven’t even thought of yet.”

  “I don’t report to any of those people, sir—I report to the President of the United States, same as you,” Jefferson said flatly. “The President requested my opinion on how to stop illegal immigration, not how to placate several dozen disparate political groups. That’s someone else’s job.”

  “You’re wrong there, Sergeant Major—the political aspec
ts of this office is everyone’s job, just like the military decisions made in this office affect the political landscape,” the President said. “Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.” He scowled at Kinsly, who withered under his glare. “Anything else for me, sir?”

  “I’m going to fly out to San Diego to attend the funerals of those Border Patrol agents killed last night,” the President said somberly. “I’ll meet with the directors of the Customs and Border Protection Service and the Immigration and Customs Enforcement Service afterward.”

  “I’d like to go along and hear those briefings too, sir.”

  “I thought you might. Approved.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jefferson said. “I’d like permission to bring along my own advisers as well.”

  “Of course; bring anyone you need. Submit their names to Tom for clearances. Who do you have in mind?” But before Jefferson could respond, the President’s eyes widened, and he said, “Richter and Vega, I presume?”

  “Implementing a major border security program with a division-sized task force will take time, sir,” Jefferson said. “I thought it would be prudent to try a smaller task force first. Task Force TALON is already formed; it already has a security and antiterrorist mission and full authorization to gain assets from any active or reserve units necessary; and they’re already located in the southwest.” Task Force TALON was a joint military and FBI counterterrorist strike team led by Ray Jefferson before he became the National Security Adviser; now Major Jason Richter and Dr. Ariadna Vega, formerly of the Army Research Lab, were in charge. “I want to bring in an officer from the National Guard Bureau to listen in too.”

  “I thought TALON was disbanded after the Chamberlain fiasco,” Kinsly said.

  “Negative, sir,” Jefferson said. “TALON received additional funding from the Departments of Defense and Homeland Security under a secret emergency authorization. Since the Consortium attacks last year, TALON has grown to company size, about two hundred members. They have eight CID squads—sixteen CID units—plus one training and maintenance squad. They operate missions all over the world: they are still active in north and central Africa and Central Asia, hunting down Zakharov and other surviving members of the Consortium.”