Edge of Battle

President Conrad looked at the others around him, searching their eyes or expressions for any sign of dissent or argument. He found nothing but stone-somber faces and averted eyes. “Let Congress or the courts decide if what we do here this day violates the Constitution we all swore to uphold,” he said. “As the leader of the Executive Branch of our government as well as this nation, which has declared war on terrorism and has vowed to fight it wherever it is found, with whatever weapon we have at our disposal, I will act.

“Gentlemen, the attack on our Border Patrol agents by these highly trained and well-equipped assassins is a warning that our borders are wide open and our country, our government, and our people are vulnerable,” he said. “I mean to do something about it, and I want it done now. I want this program rolling quickly, efficiently, and positively.

“I’m staking my entire political future on this project, and I expect each one of my administrators and commanders to follow through one hundred and ten percent,” the President concluded. “If you can’t do it, I expect your resignations on my desk by the time I get back to Washington. I want total commitment, or you can find work elsewhere. Understood?” There was a muted chorus of “Yes, Mr. President” around the room. “Let’s get it on, folks.”

FIVE MILES SOUTH OF OCATILLO, CALIFORNIA

DAYS LATER

The five-mile gap between the steel border security fences between the Tecate and Mexicali border crossing points had been filled in with a simple fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence, which was laughably easy to climb. The fence was also cut into pieces in many areas, so much so that it was possible to walk through it without getting your clothes dirty or snagged. Messages and flags posted in various towns, villages, roads, and bus stations in Mexico also told the latest news about which parts of the fence were open, which cameras were active or broken, and where recent arrests had been made. Intel on crossing the fence was plentiful and mostly accurate.

Everyone also knew there were motion sensors buried in various places between the border, Route 98, and Interstate 8. The sensors would send a signal to the U.S. Border Patrol stations in San Diego or El Centro, alerting air and ground patrols. The Border Patrol planes had heat-seeking FLIR sensors, which could make out a warm body easily against the rapidly chilling ground at night. But at night the ground patrols took much longer to travel cross- country, if they came at all, so even with a plane up unless you were really unlucky and a patrol was already in the area, you were probably going to make it. Even if a Border Patrol vehicle did show, once the pollos scattered it was tough to round them all up again, so at night the majority of this group of twenty-five illegals crossing the border had a pretty good chance of making it to the interstate highway. A few would always get caught, but most would make it.

It was a numbers game most migrants were willing to play. The strongest and most dedicated of them would make it. The women, children, and the weaker ones had their own role to play too: they gave the Border Patrol someone to catch.

Once the migrants got to Ocatillo, there was a fairly sophisticated travel network set up to get the majority of them to their destinations. Many had relatives waiting for them; many used gypsy taxis and buses, many of them run by farm owners and driven by illegals themselves, to transport pollos to their jobs or to more migrant-friendly bus stations, ones not patrolled as frequently by Border Patrol or Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents. Once north of Interstate 8, the chances of evading the authorities and blending into the largely Hispanic population of southern California was much easier.

The trek for this group of twenty-five men and women went smoothly. They camped a couple miles from the border in a small gully until dark, out of sight of infrequent American patrols; then they crossed the chain-link fence, followed a circuitous path around known motion sensors, and hurried on, being careful to stay off established paths and roads where patrols and sensors would likely be.

By midnight the group was within sight of the town of Ocatillo. Another couple of hours to reach the outskirts of town, and then they would disperse. The group was excited, talking in soft but energetic voices. About a full day on foot, and they were safely in the U.S., ready to get to work. So far, no sign of any patrols or…

At that moment, they heard, “La atencion, esta es la frontera de Estado Unidos patrulla. Permanezca donde usted esta y tenga por favor su identificacion lista demostrar a los oficiales. Gracias.”

“A la chingada! The Border Patrol is here!” one of the migrants cursed.

“Where? Where are they?” another asked. The Border Patrol rarely sneaked up on migrants in the field—they came in with lights on vehicles or helicopters blazing; their checkpoints were surrounded by lights that could be seen for miles, as if very demonstrably broadcasting a warning for the illegals to turn around and head back to the border.

“?Quien cuida? Just run!” At that, eight men took off, five running east and the other three heading west. The rest of the group seemed confused and scared; a few “assumed the position”— squatting down, arms on their knees, and lighting up a cigarette, awaiting arrest—and several others headed off in random, mostly southerly directions, bumping into each other as they fled. A few dared not use flashlights, but most pulled out their “lucis,” short for luciernaga, or “fireflies”—small disposable flashlights to help them see in the pitch-black darkness, part of the discarded artifacts of the pollos’ presence, along with water bottles and plastic ponchos, which could be seen littering the desert by the thousands along the border region from California to Texas.

“No funcione por favor o usted puede ser danado,” the electronic voice said. Naturally, none of the ones running stopped. The only lights visible were the lights of Ocatillo far off on the horizon, and that direction had to be avoided. The runners simply put the lights of Ocatillo on their backs or left or right shoulders and ran as best they could, hoping that the Border Patrol would pick someone else to arrest.

The group of eight men running east shielded their “lucis” as much as possible to avoid giving away their position, but they still had trouble maintaining their balance as they half-ran, half-stumbled through the darkness. But the chase—the scratches from running into thorny bushes, the twisted ankles, the headlong tumbles down an unseen wash—was part of the game, and they played it well. The Border Patrol had their all-terrain vehicles, helicopters, dogs, and sensors—all the migrants had were their feet and their desire to make it safely to their destination. Most often they came out on top, proof enough to them that their exertion was worthwhile and justified. The farther they ran, the better chances they had of…

Suddenly they heard an electronic voice shout, “?Parada! ‘Stop!’” directly in front of them, but they could see nothing in the darkness. Two men dodged left away from what they thought was the source of the voice…and ran headlong right into what felt like a steel wall. “?Madre del dios!” one of them shouted. Dazedly he looked up, then flicked on his luci…

…just in time to see a large figure—not a man, but a man-shaped figure as big as a church doorway. The thing was about ten feet tall, with a ribbed frame throughout with a light gray covering underneath. Its arms were attached to broad shoulders, thinning down to a slender waist, but its legs and feet were wide and very steady- looking. Its head was bullet-shaped, with a variety of sensors attached all around it. But the most unusual thing about the robot is how it moved. It was remarkably agile and incredibly humanlike in all its movements, with every human nuance duplicated with amazing precision. As they watched, the thing darted away and was gone in the blink of an eye into the darkness.

One of the pollos tried to get up and run, but he stumbled into a thorny bush in the darkness, and the energy simply drained out of his body. The second man started scrambling across the desert on his hands and knees, but finally gave up as well and rejoined his dazed amigo.

Through his imaging infrared sensor, Captain Frank “Falcon” Falcone aboard CID One could see the desert landscape even clearer than in the shimmering, eye-burning daytime—and the migrants stood out even clearer, even at ranges in excess of two miles. “Two down here,” he radioed. “I’m going after the group of five.”

“We have a good eyeball on you, Falcon,” Ariadna Vega said. She was back at the first Rampart forward operating location constructed as part of the presidential directive to fortify the U.S.-Mexico border, located about eight miles southeast. She was watching images broadcast from an unmanned reconnaissance vehicle called a Condor, orbiting overhead in a racetrack pattern in this often-used migrant border-crossing area. “The last guy in your group looks like he’s giving up.” She could clearly see the third runner with his hands on his head, walking in