life for him ever since he tried out for cross-country in middle school. After high school graduation he enrolled at the University of the Pacific in Stockton in prelaw, but his heart really wasn’t into studying—he was meant for the outdoors. Operation Desert Shield, the buildup of troops in the Persian Gulf in response to the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, gave him a good opportunity to get out of school, so he enlisted in the California Army National Guard.
Gray quickly discovered that he didn’t want to be an enlisted man in the Army, so when he returned to the States after an eight-month deployment to the “Sandbox,” he got his degree in criminal justice, applied for and received a reserve commission, and then, at the urging of many of his comrades in the Guard, joined the California Highway Patrol. It was a perfect fit for him. He quickly advanced in rank in both the Guard and the CHP. He didn’t spend as much time as he wanted with his wife and two children back in Fairfield, but he was living the life he always wanted: two careers spent mostly outdoors, a good deal of responsibility but not unbearably so, and enough action to keep his life from getting mundane.
The place where he had stopped his jogging afforded him an excellent view of Rampart One, the small forward operating base he had been ordered to set up out here in the desert. Four days ago, Gray had led two mechanized infantry platoons, some elements of a transportation company, a security platoon, and an engineering platoon to the site about two miles south of the highway and just a few hundred meters north of the Mexican border, equidistant from the town of Boulevard, California, and the western edge of the steel border security fence around Calexico. His mission was to set up a patrol encampment to house personnel, security forces, construction crews, and aviation units for a long-term austere deployment.
Gray jogged back to his tent, showered, dressed, made his way to the mess, picked up a light breakfast of boxed cereal and a wheat roll, and went over to the commander’s table, where he found his NCO in charge, Sergeant Major Jeremy Normandin, with two of the Task Force TALON cadre. “Good morning, sir,” Normandin said, standing. “Hope you had a good jog. You get the report on the incident last night?”
“Yes. Sorry about your incident, sir, but it was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“We were hoping it wouldn’t, Captain,” Major Jason Richter said somberly.
“Any word on who will conduct the investigation, sir?”
“FBI Director DeLaine herself will be coming out with investigators from the State and Justice Departments,” Jason replied.
“I’ve received their equipment and facilities requisition list and we’ll have it put together by later this afternoon, sir,” Normandin said.
“Thanks, Sergeant Major,” Gray said. To Richter: “Where’s Captain Falcone, sir?”
“Still on patrol,” Jason replied.
Gray looked as if he had swallowed a scorpion instead of a bite of his wheat roll. “Sir, SOP states that a soldier under investigation needs to be taken off duty until he’s cleared by the investigation board, even an officer on detached assignment,” he said, getting to his feet. “Besides, I think he should be receiving counseling after his incident. Being involved in a shooting incident that results in death is hard on anyone, even veterans.”
“Frank said he was ready and able to resume patrol duties, and I believe him,” Jason said. “We only have two CID pilots at this location. Besides, no investigation has formally begun. He’ll cooperate fully with the investigation board, don’t worry.”
“Is he in the same robot…er, CID unit, sir? The investigators may want to examine it during their…”
“We downloaded all of the operating data and maintenance logs right after the incident,” Ariadna Vega said.
“That might not be good enough,” Gray said worriedly. “I’m a Highway Patrolman in the real world, and we impound vehicles involved in shooting incidents until well after the investigation is over—sometimes they’re not even returned to service, depending on the…”
“This isn’t the CHP, Captain,” Jason interrupted. “This is part of the war on terror. We only have two CID units here at Rampart One and we couldn’t afford to ground it. I don’t take soldiers off the line because they engage and kill the enemy…do you?”
“No, sir, unless an investigation board has been convened,” Gray said, matching Richter’s glare with one of his own. “There’s an investigation board on the way, so I would have pulled Falcone off the line in anticipation of the start of the investigation. It’s just my advice and opinion, that’s all. You’re in charge of the task force.”
“I appreciate your concern over the political and legal problems we might encounter because of this incident, Captain,” Jason went on, “but until I receive orders to the contrary, we continue with our mission.” He looked at Gray’s concerned face, then added, “Captain Falcone will be off-duty when he returns—he will remain here at Rampart One until the investigation board releases him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jason checked his watch. “Captain Falcone should be returning any minute now,” he said. “I’m going out to the recovery pad to meet him.”
“I’ll tag along if you don’t mind, sir,” Gray said. “I’ll grab us some water—it’s going to be a hot one today.” He and Normandin got up and followed Richter and Vega out of the mess tent and into the bright sunshine.
The Rampart One FOL, or forward operating location, was approximately forty acres in area, surrounded by electronic intrusion detection sensors and canine patrols instead of fences to save on setup time and cost. The mess tent was in the unit area, which included offices, barracks, and equipment and supply storage. The tents were standard desert TEMPER units—highly portable tents that used lightweight aluminum frames instead of center and side poles to make it easier to erect; they provided more interior space. The tops of the military personnel tents were covered with thin flexible silicone solar cells that change sunlight into electricity and were stored in batteries to power ventilation fans and lights.
“How often do you get supplies out here, Captain Gray?” Ari asked.
“Call me Ben, Dr. Vega.”
“Only if you call me Ari, Ben,” Ari responded with one of her patented man-killing smiles.
“Deal.” Jason noticed with a smile that Gray was already hooked, landed, gutted, and filleted. “Once a day right now, Ari, but when we start getting some detainees here and the ops tempo picks up I’m sure it’ll increase. I figure five hundred people here max, a minimum of eight liters of water each per day, plus water for the mess halls, showers, and maintenance areas—that’s a minimum of two large tankers of potable water, or a tractor-trailer full of bottled water; plus a tanker of diesel for the generators and a tanker of Jet-A for the aircraft, per week. Add in rations for five hundred persons, spare parts, equipment—I figure two convoys a week, with four tankers and one to two tractor-trailers of supplies and equipment each. Half our manpower goes toward logistics and security for all this stuff.”
They approached an area with a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. It was the detention facility, a complex of fences and tents to house migrants caught illegally crossing the border. He had seen the facility just last night, but it seemed as if the detainee population had doubled since then. “Man, I thought it would take a month or two to reach our maximum capacity—now it looks like it’ll only take a few more days,” he remarked. “We’ve only been open for business for three days!”
The detention facility had twelve TEMPER units set up, the same tent structures as the unit area. Each thirty-two-foot TEMPER unit housed sixteen individuals on cots; the plans called for sixteen TEMPER units at Rampart One. Access between units was strictly controlled with chain-link fence, so detainees entered and exited from the front of each unit only. In back of the tents was a fenced yard for basketball and soccer. Beside the exercise yard was a twelve-bed field medical clinic, a legal services tent, a small chapel, and a community latrine for men and women. Portable ballpark lights illuminated the compound at night.
Ariadna Vega definitely appeared uncomfortable looking around the place. “Pretty miserable, isn’t it?” she remarked.
“I’ve seen worse, Ari,” Gray said. “The TEMPER units are air-conditioned. The detainees will get three squares a day, water, and medical care while they’re being processed; the kids will get free education; they’ll have access to legal aid. We try to make them as comfortable as possible while they’re here.”
“I don’t see very much privacy.”
“No, I guess not,” Gray said. “This is a detention facility, not a hotel. I’ve done the best I could here with the tools I’m given.”
“I don’t mean you’re not doing enough, Ben,” Ari said apologetically. “It’s just…well, I’ve never been exposed to any of this before.”
“This is light-years better than what we had in Kuwait during Desert Storm,” Gray said. “I would’ve killed for
