They had been staking out the house through the night. Carl detected activity inside, a significant gathering of some kind, but there was no movement from the house.
Cronos was motionless, hanging on the top of the fence with his night scope on the house, his limbs falling asleep. He waited as man after man entered the house with large black duffle bags. He tagged two of them undetected, and he wanted one more shot just in case. It would’ve been foolish to rely on one tag alone. Tags could fall off, bags can be left behind.
A final man walked over to the house, looking around. For a moment, he gazed over at the border fence, but Cronos’ corrugated silhouette still blended with the retreating dark sky. He didn’t have much time left. Soon he would be visible against the dawn.
The man turned to enter the house, and Cronos took aim. He exhaled and held it to steady the shot, and he squeezed the trigger. He hit the man’s backpack. The man entered the house completely unaware. There didn’t appear to be another soul around.
Cronos shouldered his rifle and began to lower himself from the fence slowly. He slid down to the ground and crept his way over to where Carl’s mound was, chasing the pins and needles out of his legs. He gave Carl a thumbs up and then three fingers.
Carl nodded and whispered into his mini-com. “Three birds away.”
“Copy that,” Peter responded.
Now they waited. Peter was with Carl’s and his squads in a nearby abandoned factory. Kettle’s unit passed by a few hours earlier on patrol and waited further west. Carl reached his tendrils across the fence and into the house. He silently hoped that the tags wouldn’t be discovered, which would be the next possible wrinkle in the operation.
After approximately a half an hour, Carl sensed movement in the house and, just like that, the group vanished from his detection.
“The birds have flown the coop,” he whispered into his mini-com.
“Copy that.”
Carl rose and commanded the drone to do so with him. As they walked over to the fence, he commanded it to follow the signal of the tags. The drone gave no outward recognition of its silent command. It only turned and began to walk a path that must have been that of the subterranean coyotes.
“The bloodhound is loose,” Carl said into his mini-com.
In the defunct factory, Peter pointed his right index finger in the air and made a circular motion. Soldiers hopped into three trucks loaded with drones, which Peter thought would be the best way to mobilize, and engines fired up. Peter hopped into the first truck. Mackler was driving.
Peter pulled out his mini-com multi-tasker and began to track the drone with Carl, as well as the three signals coming from the tags. Carl was going to feed him coordinates as Peter followed from a distance, and Peter would track the tags’ signals as a backup contingency, extrapolating a vector from the tags’ movement. From this, he would be able to predict possible destinations where the coyotes might surface. At least that was how Lieutenant Farrow had explained it. It was all Greek to him.
Mackler followed the coordinates Peter collected from Carl, and Peter used his multi-tasker’s mapping function to cross-reference towns with the probable vectors of the tunnel.
“Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think I know where your coyotes might be headed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The most likely destination is a ghost town approximately 18 miles east of the start point in Nogales, called Lochiel.”
“Got it. What’s next?”
“Veer away from the signals. We’ll swing by and pick you up. I want to get there before they do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter spotted Carl and Cronos walking along the side of the road. Mackler pulled along side them.
“Where’s the drone?” Peter asked.
“He’s following the signals in case you’re wrong,” Carl answered.
“Carl, what if it—”
“It won’t hurt anyone,” Carl interrupted. “Trust me.”
“Get in,” Peter frowned.
They took an alternate vector to Lochiel. There was a wide dirt road leading into what barely qualified as a town. There was a lot of dirt and tall grass with a wide smattering of abandoned buildings and half-erected wire fences running throughout.
Peter figured they arrived there before the coyotes with plenty of time to spare. “Mackler, stop here.”
Mackler stopped the truck by an old house with a front porch enclosed with heavily corroded metal screens. The other two trucks stopped behind them.
Peter grabbed his mini-com. “Kettle, block the road and establish a perimeter.”
“Copy.”
“Carl, assemble Alpha and Beta squads. We’re going in on foot.”
“I don’t understand,” said Carl as they flanked the dirt road, “there’s an abandoned border station right here in Lochiel. Why not just cross here?”
“That’s what we’d be expecting,” said Peter. “Besides, the Mexican government has stepped up security on their side, so it is assumed that Lochiel is covered on their end.”
“And so we turn a blind eye,” added Carl.
“Something like that. It’s all about misdirection.”
They made their way around thick bushes and found what looked like an old white church at the crest of a hill. It was a long building with a crucifix above the front doors.
“There,” Carl pointed, “that church.”
“It’s a post office,” Peter said consulting his min-com multi-tasker. “What makes you think—”
Then Peter saw what Carl saw. It was the drone Carl had trailing the underground coyotes. There were shouts from up the hill. A couple of sentries spotted the drone staggering along.
“Shit, they spotted your drone,” whispered Peter.
One of the sentries shouted something to the other and then to the drone. The drone ignored the order, and the sentry opened fire, dropping the drone.
“Make it stay down, Carl. We don’t want to make them too suspicious.”
Carl nodded. “Hopefully, they think it’s some homeless guy or drifter.”
“In a hundred-thousand dollar sci-fi suit,” Peter added sarcastically.
They watched as both sentinels went over to investigate. One stooped down on his haunches for a closer look at the drone. There was a conversation, and then a debate.
“This is it,” whispered Peter. While they are busy trying to figure out what the hell our drone is, we’re going to move in. The coyotes must be surfacing within the post office. A nice, strong building for a rendezvous.”
Carl saw one of the sentries pick up a mini-com. He sent a message to the drone, which reached up and grabbed the man by his throat so hard that he didn’t have the chance to yell.
“Carl, what the—”
“He was going for his mini-com,” Carl responded.
When the other man realized what was happening, the drone was sitting up and had pulled him down. His windpipe was crushed before the poor bastard could yell out a warning.
“Nice work, Carl,” said Peter patting his brother on the back. “That’ll buy us enough time.”
Peter motioned with his hands and the squads fanned out. Cronos and Rayburn, the other Spotter, remained under the cover of bushes while the undead advanced on the post office.
Peter and Carl brought up the rear, training their weapons on the post office. Someone inside must have heard the first drone being shot. There were the sounds of shattering glass and gunfire erupting out of the windows of the post office.
“Fall back!” Peter commanded as they let the drones advance to take the post office.
Several of the drones were hit in the chest and limbs, but kept coming. So far, there were no headshots. There were panicked shouts from inside as the undead that were shot got up and continued their assault as if nothing had happened.
Suddenly, gunfire erupted from behind them as more smugglers joined the party. Peter, Carl, and the others took
cover.
“Shit! They must’ve been hiding in some of the nearby shacks,” shouted Peter as he returned fire. “Kettle, we’re being ambushed from behind.”
“Copy that. En route.”
Cronos and Rayburn were tagging the party crashers. As they were tagged, the smugglers grabbed their chests where the barbs of the tags dug in and looked at each other in confusion.
Then drones started stumbling in from behind them and were lunging for them. The terrified smugglers began firing at the frenzied undead, but no headshots. The gunfire subsided and was replaced with screams of pain and horror as the drones did their dirty work.
This gave Peter and his men the opportunity to focus on the church.
“Carl?”
“Some of the pulses are disappearing, Pete.”
“They’re going back into the tunnel. We need to get in there.”
Carl stood up and jumped behind five drones that formed a wall in front of him. Peter knew what Carl was doing. “Give him some cover,” he shouted. They all opened fire on the windows of the post office.
Bullets whizzed by Carl’s head and his undead wall staggered and stumbled as they advanced on the post office. He pressed on their backs as they were hit, pushing them forward with body and will. Friendly suppressive fire erupted all around him, forming a corridor of bullets as they pushed their way forward.
Carl made it with his entourage to the front of the post office and they began to push their way in. The rest of the drones were clawing their way in through the tall, narrow windows on each side.
Most of the gunfire from within was focused on the drones coming in through the sides. Carl parted his undead shield and began picking off gunmen one-by-one.
The ones that saw Carl tried to fire back, but taking their attention off the undead coming through the windows proved to be a fatal error. Carl didn’t even need to waste a single bullet on them.
“Carl, find the tunnel. We only have 18 miles to catch the others before they reach the border.”
“Copy that.” Carl frantically looked around for the hole to the tunnel. There was a mess of bodies with drones feeding on them and bullet casings everywhere. The gunmen in the window were well armed. These were gunrunners after all.
He hopped the counter and saw it. A large gaping hole in the tile floor. He commanded the infantry drones to abandon their feast and come behind the counter.
He looked around and saw a couple of stray black duffle bags. As he rifled through them, he found assault rifles, Mac-10’s, and…
He jumped into the hole first, and the drones fell in behind him like carnivorous lemmings. Carl crouched down and scurried as fast as his legs would take him. He knew they had a head start on him.
“Carl, we’re in the post office. We’ve found the tunnel.”
“Stay out of the tunnel, Pete!”
“Please repeat. It sounds like you said—”
“You heard right. Stay out of the tunnel, Pete. Trust me.”
“Copy. You better get those coyotes.”
“I’m working on it,” Carl said with irritation as he scrambled down the tunnel. Fortunately, his enhanced speed allowed him to gain on the fleeing coyotes, but it also meant leaving his undead bodyguards behind.
He scampered down the dark tunnel, sweat dripping down his face. Time was slipping away, and he still had more tunnel to cover.
“Carl, you only have ten more miles before you reach the fence.” Peter was tracking Carl’s mini-com from the surface with his own multi-tasker.
Even with Carl’s enhanced speed, these bastards were fast. Their head start really paid off, and Carl was running out of tunnel before the border. As he scurried, he thought of Tora Bora. Those caves were bigger. These were large enough for bodies to pass through almost in single file, and just tall enough for the diminutive smugglers. Carl was scraping the top of his helmet.
On the surface, Peter was back in the truck following Carl from above. He had caught up and was directly above him when the road veered to the right.
He turned off the road to stay on top of Carl. Carl was moving quickly, but it didn’t take much for Peter to keep up in a moving vehicle. Carl curved now and then, the tunnel winding under the ground.
“I am now directly above you,” Peter shouted into his mini-com.
“I don’t see them, Pete.”
“Six more miles till the border fence, Carl.”
“You’re not helping, Pete.”
Peter’s mind raced. He saw the border fence in the distance. He thought of firing his grenade launcher at the ground, but the tunnel wound too much and he would have no way to pinpoint the coyotes or even guarantee penetration.
“Do you have eyes on the targets yet?”
“No. I don’t suppose they took any of the bags that were tagged with them.”
Peter had thought of this before. “No such luck.”
Carl hurried along, frantically reaching out and down the tunnel for a pulse. He began to pick up on something faint. He was closing the gap. He heard distant voices as he rounded another bend.
“Two more miles, Carl.”
The tunnel began to straighten out, and he could see the coyotes running in the distance ahead of him. It looked like a straight run, which made sense. The coyotes would want to get across and away from the border as quickly as possible. Once far enough away, the turns in the tunnel would throw anyone above off track.
“Pete, it’s a straight run from here.”
The coyotes must have heard Carl. The one bringing up the rear began to open fire on Carl. There was nowhere for Carl to go in the narrow tunnel, but the distance was too great and the smuggler’s aim too poor. The bullets never reached Carl.
Carl slowed his pace and returned fire. The coyotes were panicking and firing wildly back down the tunnel at Carl. He stopped and knelt on one knee.
He grabbed an RPG-7 out of the black duffle bag he brought with him and took aim. He lined up the end of the tunnel in his sights. This was going to be close. He had to aim the blast on the American side of the tunnel. It was going to be a wild guess in the best of all possible scenarios.
He squeezed the trigger and the rocket whistled down the tunnel. The coyotes disappeared in an explosion as flames shot back down the tunnel…right at Carl.
Carl was too far away. The flames raged down the tunnel and then evaporated with the souls of the coyotes it consumed.
***
“This is Olivia Friend with Channel 8 News at the U.S.-Mexican border, where apparently some big smuggling operation was stopped by the United States military.
“This is as close as we are allowed to get at the moment, but if you look you can see backhoes working overtime starting almost right at the fence to reveal an underground tunnel likely built by smugglers.
“Word from local officials is that the tunnels stretch miles into U.S. territory. Local authorities have also converged on the ghost town of Lochiel, which may or may not be related to what has transpired here in Nogales.
“Locals reported hearing a muffled boom and the ground shaking. First thinking it was an earthquake, they later spotted what looked like soldiers dressed in futuristic black suits, some of which, to quote a local onlooker, ‘Didn’t look so hot’—this after reports that gunfire had been erupting in Lochiel.
“Who are the men in black? Most likely these were the Infantry Drone Program, and they have apparently stopped something here. It is unclear at the moment if any of the coyotes were taken into custody. We will stay with the story and fill you in as we obtain more information. This is Olivia Friend for Channel 8 News. Back to you Mark and Lisa.”
“Well, it appears that someone was trying to cross the border illegally,” Mark said. “Smugglers likely, as Olivia said. The question is: what was being smuggled?”
“We now go to Katrina Zeta Torres, on location at Lochiel, with information about what locals described as gunfire…”
“Thank you, Lisa. Local authorities con
verged on the sleepy ghost town of Lochiel this morning when they received reports of gunfire coming from within the town.
“They quickly converged on the town, sealing it off. A border ghost town, Lochiel used to be a bit of a tourist destination. When the Rollercoaster Recession hit, it lost federal funding as well as tourist traffic and consequently closed.
“The Mexican government in cooperation with our government stepped up security, establishing a checkpoint on the other side of Lochiel. But it appears that the ghosts of Old West shootouts have returned to this deserted spot.
“There might be a connection to the underground tunnel discovered in Nogales at the border, and the gunfire may have been the Infantry Drone Program intercepting smugglers at this spot here.
“Local authorities are remaining tight-lipped about what transpired in both locations this morning, leaving the rest of us, for the moment, left to guess. We expect the local sheriff to go public with an official statement as to what happened sometime this afternoon.
“This is Katrina Zeta Torres for Channel 8.”
Peter was riding back in a truck with Private Jonas driving. Carl was in another truck with Beta Squad. He was reflecting on how very fortunate they were that Carl got the coyotes less than a mile from the fence on the American side.
If it were a mile more, this would have been an international incident and they would be in very deep shit. However, as it were, Carl got them on the right side. There were no prisoners, but they fired at him first. Carl did the right thing by taking them out.
Now they had to report back to Colonel Betancourt. Peter imagined Betancourt would be happy, as this was a successful operation. They stopped a rather ambitious group of weapons smugglers and uncovered a significant tunnel system. This was even better PR than stopping immigrants, because the smugglers were true threats to national security.
The anti-gun folks on the Left would be all for what happened—stopping the influx of illegal assault weapons—and they would have to say something nice about the program for a change. The President would get a much-needed boost in the polls, and the program itself will have established its niche.
I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising Page 11