Edge of Battle

by Dale Brown

  “You’re still La Migra,” Pierce said. “If the Consortium is living and moving among them, the migrants might just turn you in to ensure safety for themselves and their families. Do you have anyone in the community who could help you?”

  “I might be able to contact some of my informants…” Purdy replied, but from his expression it was obvious he couldn’t trust them either. He turned to Ariadna. “But Dr. Vega here could help me. She knows the language better than me, and she’s a helluva lot better-lookin’.”

  “I’m second-generation American,” Ariadna said uneasily, her eyes lowered apologetically to the floor. “I’ve never been part of the Hispanic community. I’m not sure if I could help you. Besides, I’ve got my hands full with the task force.”

  “Hey, Dr. Vega, you look pretty tough to me,” he said, “and from what I heard you did in Brazil and Egypt, I think you can handle yourself. Besides, the Hispanics usually don’t rough up or squeal on the women, even if they’re not from their community—it’s not very macho to put a lady in danger, even a lady cop.” In pretty good Spanish, he added, “Ellos no pueden parar mi Veracruz y su belleza, señorita.”

  “Gracias, señor,” Ari said, adding tentatively, “But I don’t think I can do it.”

  Purdy looked at Ariadna carefully, quietly trying to gauge the real meaning of her response, then shrugged. “I’m stuck, then,” he said. “I’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way—pound the pavement, kick a little ass, and pass around a lot of cash. Give me a couple BORTAC squads and I’ll have enough firepower to handle anyone.” He looked wistfully at Jason and added, “Except the Consortium. For them, I’m sure I’ll need the Marines or Special Forces, if I can’t get the robots.”

  “It might be too late anyway, Paul,” Pierce said. “I’m sure Flores has hightailed it back to Mexico by now.”

  “He might have, but I don’t think so,” Purdy said. “Flores is not Mexican. He’s an ‘angel baby’—his parents were Mexican migrant workers, but he was born in the US of A, an instant citizen.” From Pierce’s expression, she obviously didn’t know this bit of information. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you don’t show us yours, so we don’t show you ours. That’s gotta change if we hope to get any real work done.

  “Anyway, Flores’s parents were migrant farmworkers, but he was born in southern California, Coachella Valley, JFK Hospital, I think—I’ve seen his jacket. Hell, nowadays more than half of all kids born in southern California have parents who are illegals, but seventeen years ago, that made you special—an ‘angel baby.’ I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts he’s still in the area. He helps the migrants but he’s one hundred percent American—I don’t think he would run to Mexico.” He turned again to Jason and Ariadna. “Give me these two and their gadgets, and I’ll find Victor Flores, I guarantee it.”

  Kelsey looked at Jason, then said, “There’s no way the White House is going to approve using TALON to hunt down one young man,” she said.

  “You’re the freakin’ director of the FBI, ma’am—tell ’em what you want and what you’re plannin’ on, and they’ll do it—if they’re smart,” Purdy said. “You meet with the President all the time, right? You used to work for the new Secretary of Homeland Security, and if I’m not mistaken you reported directly to the new National Security Adviser and that rat bastard traitor Chamberlain when TALON was first stood up, right? Excuse me, ma’am, but what’s the question here? You got more insider avenues than Martha Stewart.”

  “TALON wasn’t designed as an investigative system, Agent Purdy,” Jason said. “TALON is a high-tech individual motorized infantry unit, equivalent to a heavy rifle, missile, or mortar squad. It’s better if it…”

  “You guys are killin’ me,” Purdy said, shaking his head in pure exasperation. “You’re tellin’ me you have a gazillion-dollar robot and all these fancy unmanned reconnaissance aircraft out there and you can’t help me find one damned kid in an artichoke field in the Coachella Valley? You”—he went on, turning to Kelsey—“can’t requisition these guys to help you track down the one other survivor of a terrorist assassination, the guy that may lead us to the whole gang?” He glared at them both. “With all due respect: what kind of pansies are you guys? That’s all you do all day is whine and tell your subordinates no, no, no?”

  “You’ve never seen a CID unit in action, Agent Purdy…”

  “I’ve seen ’em on TV enough to know they’re a hell of a lot faster, stronger, and tougher than those Russians that shot me in the back,” Purdy interjected. “Yeah, sure, robots aren’t your typical undercover agent. But that doesn’t mean we can’t put them and the rest of your stuff to work. It just takes a little imagination and brainpower, Major. What’s the matter—the Army not issuing creative thought to its field grade officers anymore?” Jason smiled and nodded in surrender; Purdy nodded in satisfaction and turned to Kelsey. “And you, Miss Director—I don’t want to hear the words no or I can’t do that in my presence, with all due respect. If you don’t want to use your power or authority as director of the freakin’ FBI, hand it over to me—I’ll show you how to get the job done.”

  “Keep it in check, Agent Purdy…” Angelica Pierce warned.

  “No, he’s right, Angelica,” Kelsey said. She looked at her watch, then at Janice Perkins. “Janice…?”

  She had her personal digital organizer out before Kelsey asked the question. “We’ll be taking status reports from the SACs and the foreign bureaus on the flight back to Washington,” she said immediately. “Meetings in Washington start at thirteen hundred hours. The first one is with the intelligence staff, followed by the meeting with the directors of national intelligence and central intelligence at Langley. We’ll have one hour after that to prepare briefings and recommendations. We brief the AG at sixteen hundred hours, the National Security Adviser and Chief of Staff at sixteen-thirty, which I think will go at least two hours, and then we brief the President. He may ask for it earlier because he has the speech to deliver at Annapolis.”

  “That’s way too much information, Agent Perkins,” Purdy said. “No one wants to know how the damned sausage is made, for Christ’s sake.”

  Kelsey thought for a moment, then nodded resolutely. “Janice, I need you to…”

  “Have the deputy director take the status reports and report any unusual or significant activity to you,” Janice interjected, making notes on her PDA with amazing speed, “because you’ll be in a strategy meeting with Major Richter, Dr. Vega, and the charming Agent Purdy, preparing a plan to utilize Task Force TALON to apprehend suspected Consortium terrorists that you think have infiltrated into the southwestern United States with the use of Mexican human smugglers.”

  “Tell me you can cook and I’ll marry you tonight, sweetheart,” Purdy said to Perkins.

  Janice only winked at the veteran Border Patrol agent in reply, then asked, “Are you going back to Washington, ma’am?”

  “Back to all those damned fool boring-ass meetings?” Purdy mumbled under his breath. “How can she bear to miss any of them?”

  “I’ll be back for the meeting with DNI and DCI,” Kelsey said. “The deputy will have to take over all other chores until I return.”

  “That’s what assistants are for, ma’am,” Purdy said.

  “Thank you for your insights, Agent Purdy,” Kelsey said, letting a little exasperation show in her voice. “I just gave you one hour of my time to put together a plan of action to use Task Force TALON and the FBI to assist you in tracking down the terrorists that killed those Border Patrol agents. Now, if you’re not all jokes and hot air, you had better start talking to me, and it better be good. Jason, Ari, have a seat. When I get on my plane for Washington, I want a plan in place and all the players tagged and ready to go as soon as I get the word from the White House.”

  Paul Purdy slapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly. “Now that’s what I was waitin’ to hear, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “It won’t take ten minutes to tell you what I want to do
to track down those bastards that killed my friends and slaughtered those innocent people. Then, you tell me how you can help me do my job.

  “This isn’t the Army, my friends; it ain’t the FBI; it ain’t even the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection,” he went on seriously, looking at each one of them in turn, then settling his gaze on Ariadna’s worried expression. “I’m talkin’ about the Border Patrol, the real Border Patrol. We been around a long time, doin’ our jobs the best we could. We do things a little differently out in the field. You follow my lead and help me do my job, and we’ll nail those murderous sons of bitches soonest.”

  He looked Jason up and down with a smile on his face, then slapped him on the shoulder. “You’d better get busy growin’ some facial hair, young fella—if you can,” he said. “You look way too clean-cut for where we’re goin’.”

  CHAPTER 5

  CORONADO NATIONAL FOREST,

  SOUTHEASTERN ARIZONA

  TWO NIGHTS LATER

  “Welcome to a very special edition of The Bottom Line, my friends and fellow Americans. I’m Bob O’Rourke, speaking to you from the Coronado National Forest about thirty miles southwest of Tombstone, Arizona, the site of the infamous Gunfight at the OK Corral and the home of tough-as-nails lawmen like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson. This is being taped for broadcast tomorrow morning. My voice may sound weird to you because I’m speaking into a special microphone mask that muffles my voice so it can’t be heard by others, which might reveal our presence. I’ll explain why I need this in a moment.

  “I’m here with my sound engineer, Georgie Wayne, who has done stevedore’s work helping me haul our gear up these mountain passes tonight. It was quite an exhausting hike for me, and I only carried a light backpack—Georgie carried the rest of our stuff, and I give him all the credit in the world for humping all this gear for me. My tree-hugging producer, Fand Kent, is back in the studios in Las Vegas—she doesn’t have the legs or the stomach for this kind of work.

  “We’re way up in the Huachuca Mountains, at about six-to seven-thousand feet elevation. It’s rocky, with lots of trees and scrub brush—easy to hide in, as countless generations of fugitives, gangsters, Native Americans, and outlaws well know. Nearby Millers Pass rises to an elevation of over 9,400 feet. The air is cool, even though the daytime temperatures exceeded ninety degrees, and the air is very still. There is a very thin moon out tonight. It’s a perfect night for an ambush.

  “But it’s us who will be doing the ambush. I’m here with Alpha Patrol of the American Watchdog Project, the world-famous group of volunteers from all over the United States who have taken it upon themselves to do what the federal government and the military are apparently unwilling or—in the case of the abortive attempt by Task Force TALON in southern California recently—unable to do: patrol and protect America’s borders. We’re here tonight because we have credible, actionable information gleaned from informants and from the Watchdog’s own network of watchers, both on the ground and in the air, that a large number of illegal migrants will be heading this way to cross into the United States. With me on a wireless microphone is the American Watchdog Project’s commander, Herman Geitz. Can you hear me okay, Commander?”

  “Loud and clear, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz replied. He was almost a foot taller than O’Rourke, with a bushy beard and large craggy features, wearing camouflaged forest hunting clothes, a Camel-Bak water bottle in his pack, and a web utility belt with a sidearm holster, flashlight, and other gear.

  “Thank you for allowing The Bottom Line to accompany you on this mission, Herman. My first question is obvious: if your information is so accurate, where is the Border Patrol? Why aren’t they in on this?”

  “Thank you for being here tonight with us, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz said. “To answer your question, the Border Patrol is here. The closest unit is down the trail about ten miles away at the base of the mountain, probably patrolling Route 83 and the Coronado Trail Road. The Border Patrol has about thirty agents that work in three shifts to patrol southwest Cochise County and half of Santa Cruz County, roughly between Nogales and Bisbee up to Interstate 10.”

  “And how much territory is that?”

  “That’s about a hundred and sixty square miles, Bob.”

  “One hundred and sixty square miles of some of the most rugged, inhospitable, and dangerous land in the United States,” O’Rourke said. “Ten agents—basically one agent for every sixteen square miles.”

  “It’s actually two agents per patrol,” Geitz corrected him, “so it’s five units plus a roving supervisor per shift for the entire patrol area.”

  “How do they do it, Herman?” O’Rourke asked. “How is it possible to cover that much territory with only ten men per shift?”

  “Like most small tactical units, Mr. O’Rourke, the Border Patrol relies on intelligence information and sensors, whether they be ground vibration alarms or helicopter patrols using infrared sensors,” Geitz replied. “In essence, the patrols position themselves according to the latest information they receive; and they respond to alarms, like a private security company patrolling a large gated community. Unfortunately, in this case, the ‘gated community’ is very large and very rugged, and there are no gates—the illegals can cross the border anywhere within twenty to thirty miles from where we’re standing, and if the Border Patrol’s not close by when they trip an alarm, they can make it without getting caught.”

  “Sounds like an impossible task.”

  “They’re backed up with two helicopters assigned to the Tucson Border Patrol sector, and they can call on local law enforcement and even Army soldiers from Fort Huachuca if necessary.”

  “Ever see soldiers out here helping the Border Patrol, Herman?”

  “I’ve seen one Army helicopter used to medevac an agent when he rolled his Ramcharger,” Geitz replied.

  “How about the sheriffs’ department?”

  “They help transport any detainees and provide the lockup until the Border Patrol transports prisoners to Tucson for processing.”

  “So in essence it’s just five patrols and a supervisor to patrol this entire mountainous area…”

  “And the Watchdogs,” Geitz said proudly. “We have almost a hundred volunteers out here patrolling the Coronado National Forest tonight. Stand by.” Geitz swung one microphone away from his lips, spoke quietly into another headset microphone, then brought O’Rourke’s mike back. “One of our patrols has made distant contact with a very large group of individuals moving through the Khyber Pass. Looks like our information is right on.”

  O’Rourke’s voice quivered in excitement. “What’s the Khyber Pass, Herman?”

  “As you know, Bob, the real Khyber Pass between Pakistan and Afghanistan is an important and well-used route of travel, used for centuries as a link between central Asia and the Indian subcontinent,” Geitz said. O’Rourke nodded impatiently as if he knew all about what Geitz was saying. “Alexander the Great used the Khyber Pass three hundred years before the birth of Christ to invade India. Centuries of traders, soldiers, smugglers, and travelers used that route freely because there was virtually no way to patrol or regulate it. We call this particular trail over the mountains the Khyber Pass because it is by far the busiest route for illegals to travel between the state of Sonora in Mexico and southern Arizona. The Watchdogs have made dozens of intercepts on this trail since our formation two years ago.”

  “What do the Watchdogs do up here, Herman?”

  “We sit, wait, observe, and report, sir,” Geitz replied. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “So you spot someone walking on this trail. There’s nothing illegal about that, is there?”

  “No, sir, there isn’t, and we don’t treat everyone we encounter up here as illegals,” Geitz said. “Only the ones we definitely know traveled across the border are classified as illegals.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “Most times, it’s just watching,” Geitz said. “We station ourselves along the bo
rder, which is carefully surveyed and verified, and watch them come across with our own eyes. Sometimes we have Fido observe them coming across.”

  “‘Fido?’ What’s that? A dog?”

  “Our unmanned reconnaissance drone,” Geitz said. “It’s actually a war surplus Pioneer drone used by the U.S. Navy and Marines during Operation Desert Storm to pick out artillery and shore bombardment targets. The Iraqi soldiers knew the Pioneer drones were used to spot artillery targets and actually surrendered to the drones in very large numbers. It’s been invaluable help in telling us where and when a group will come across. When we see activity, we’ll go out to make contact.”

  “But when you make contact, you don’t actually know for sure they’re illegal immigrants, do you? How do you know they’re illegals?”

  “Most times we actually see them cross the border—we have it carefully surveyed and mapped relative to our observation positions, so there’s never any doubt,” Geitz explained. “Anyone who crosses the border at other than a border crossing point is in violation of the law, no matter what their nationality is—even natural-born Americans can’t legally do it. But it’s not our job to know or to find out if they’re illegal or not. Only law enforcement has the right to stop them, ask for identification, and ascertain their citizenship or immigration status. Again—and it’s the main point that so many of our critics miss—all the American Watchdog Project does is observe and report. We help the Border Patrol do their job.”

  “So when you come across a group of illegals…?”

  “We photograph them with our infrared and low-light cameras, send the images to a relay van down on Route 92 to upload our contact images to the Internet, and have the guys in the van contact the Border Patrol. The control unit will then relay any instructions received from them to us.”

  “Instructions? What do they tell you to do?”

  “They usually tell us to leave the illegal migrants alone, Mr. O’Rourke,” Geitz replied.