Edge of Battle

the direction from where he came. “The group of five have split up into two groups, Charlie and Delta. Delta looks like the group of three.”

“Got ’em,” Falcone said. Every time he moved his head, his electronic visor showed small lettered arrows where the Condor’s targeting sensors had locked onto a person. “On the way.” Falcone turned in the direction of the Delta arrow and started off in a fast trot, quickly reaching thirty miles an hour and catching up to the runners with ease. He ran past them, then stopped about fifty yards in front of their path and watched as they ran toward him. When they got closer he broadcast, “Los hombres, este son la frontera patrullan Operation Rampart. Por favor parada. No le danare. ‘Please stop. I won’t hurt you.’”

“?Dejenos solos, hibrido!” one of them shouted. Falcone reached out just as one was about to run past him and gave him a push, sending him flying and crashing into the hard-baked earth. Another really big pollo, shining his flashlight on the CID unit before him, gasped aloud, swore, ran toward Falcone, jumped, and kicked out with both feet as if he was trying to break down a door. Falcone wasn’t prepared for the jump-kick and didn’t brace himself; he staggered backward a few steps when the big Mexican hit.

“?No tan resistente, eh, cerdo?” the third man shouted gleefully. “You messed with the wrong toro tonight, culo!” Out of nowhere he produced an Intratec TEC-9 nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, leveled it, and opened fire, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. The second migrant screamed, trying to tell the third not to shoot, then covering his ears and flattening himself on the ground as the machine gun erupted.

“Eso no era muy elegante, amigo,” Falcone said through his electronic translator. The migrant’s shots were running wild; Falcone was sure he had not been hit; and the rusty sand-coated gun jammed after the fifth or sixth round—but still, something happened to Frank Falcone in the next few milliseconds that he could not explain. Maybe it was just piloting the CID unit; maybe it was the excitement of the night patrol…he didn’t think, he just reacted. Moving with breathtaking speed, Falcone rushed at the gunman, and like a football linebacker running at full speed, tackled him with his right shoulder.

The Cybernetic Infantry Device robots were not heavy—the CID unit with Falcone aboard weighed less than three hundred and fifty pounds—but at the speed Falcone was moving, the impact was like getting hit by a car traveling over thirty miles an hour. The entire force of the impact of the CID unit’s shoulder centered squarely on the migrant’s left lung and heart, crushing his sternum and rib cage and driving pieces of bone through both organs. The man did not have enough breath to cough out the chestful of blood flooding his throat and right lung, and he died within moments.

“Oh, Christ!” Falcone cursed. “Control, CID One, I have a suspect down my position. I tackled the guy, and it looks like I really bashed him. I’m dismounting.”

“We registered gunshots, One,” Ariadna radioed. “Do not dismount until we can secure the area.” There was no response. “CID One, do you read me? Falcon, answer up.”

But Falcone had already climbed out of the CID unit and gone over to the gunman with a flashlight and first- aid kit from the CID unit’s dismount container, a device resembling a fanny pack attached to the back of the robot. It did not take long for him to make an assessment—the guy was definitely dead. Falcone went back to the dismount container and retrieved a wireless headset. “Ari? Falcon. He’s dead. Send a Border Patrol van with a medical examiner.”

Ariadna was already talking excitedly when Falcone released the Transmit key: “…converging on your position, repeat, Frank, I see two unknowns moving in on your position! Do you copy?”

“I copy, Ari. Which direc…?” He was interrupted by the sound of bullets ricocheting off the CID unit beside him. “Shots fired, Ari!” he radioed. “Where are they?”

“West of your position, Frank!” Ari responded. “Get down! Take cover!”

Falcone hit the ground and crawled behind the CID unit. He heard more gunshots, but no more bullets hit the robot or the earth around him. He tried to reach up to the dismount container to retrieve the wrist remote controller, but excited voices in Spanish and more gunshots made him duck again for cover. They were close, very close. Flashlight beams started to arc in his direction. “They’re almost on me, Ari,” Falcone said. “Take control of CID One and take ’em out!”

“Roger, Falcon,” Vega responded. Moments later the hatch on the back of the CID unit snapped shut, and the big robot lumbered to life. “?Caiga sus armas! ?Esta es su advertencia pasada!” Ariadna radioed through the robot via the satellite datalink. She raised the robot’s hands and arms menacingly, steering the robot toward the oncoming migrants, hopefully enough to scare them off but not too far away to expose Falcone. The robot had no weapons, and the satellite downlink was very slow—the robot would be able to do little else but walk and talk under her control…

…and at that moment, it appeared as if the gunmen figured that detail out, for they immediately split up and started to flank the robot, circling it and moving closer to Falcone. Ari had no choice but to make the CID unit step back to protect Falcone.

“?Cual es incorrecto, Senor Robot?” one of the gunmen asked. “Not so tough now, are you?”

“?Mate al poli y salgamos de aqui!” the other gunman shouted. “Send him to hell and let’s…aaiieee!” Suddenly the second gunman’s voice was cut off with a strangled scream. The first gunman swung his flashlight around toward his comrade and saw a large metal container of some kind lying on the ground next to the unconscious second gunman. The first gunman cried out, dropped his weapon, and ran off.

“You okay, Falcon?” Jason Richter radioed. A few moments later, CID Two ran up to where Falcone was still lying prone on the desert floor, and Jason dismounted.

“I’m okay,” Falcone replied. They checked the unconscious gunman together. “What’d you hit him with, boss?”

“The only thing I had on me—the dismount container,” Jason said. “Good thing the laser targeting system was still up and running. Where’s the first attacker?”

Falcone showed him where the dead gunman was. “I recommend we bring weapons next time, boss,” Falcone said.

Jason had seen his share of casualties in his short tenure as commander of Task Force TALON, but the condition of this corpse still made him a little queasy—it looked as if his chest had been flattened all the way to his spine, rupturing and smearing all of his internal organs throughout what was left of his body and all around him on the ground. There was no doubt, Jason thought ruefully, that no matter how violent these migrants had been, TALON was still going to take some heat for killing one like this.

“If there is a next time, Falcon,” Jason said. “If there is a next time.”

CHAPTER 3

RAMPART ONE FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION,

BOULEVARD, CALIFORNIA

THE NEXT MORNING

Army National Guard Captain Ben Gray of the 1st Battalion, 185th Infantry, finished his early-morning jog along Highway 98, poured some water from a plastic bottle over his head, then took a sip. It was barely an hour after dawn, and already it had to be in the low seventies here in the deserts of southern California. In another couple hours, he guessed, the pavement would be too hot to run on.

Gray, a California Highway Patrol Academy firearms instructor who lived near Fairfield, California, was an infantry company commander with the California Army National Guard, stationed in San Jose. Running was a way of