Edge of Battle

“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 terms 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.”