Edge of Battle

Watchdogs seeing him, big-time radio celebrity Bob O’Rourke, with urine-stained pants was unthinkable, and he strained harder to hold it in.

In a sudden flurry of activity, the Watchdogs ran into the darkness for several dozen yards, then stopped suddenly. “I…I’m following Commander Herman Geitz of the American Watchdogs as best I can—they’re moving quickly down a path that is completely invisible to me.” O’Rourke spoke into his microphone mask, trying but failing not to breathe too heavily and reveal how completely out of shape he really was. “My legs feel as if they’ve been bull-whipped by running through the scrub brush. Good…good, we’ve stopped.” He whispered for Geitz, who turned back to O’Rourke. “Why did we have to run all of a sudden like that, Commander?”

“A little confusion, sir,” Geitz whispered, raising his night vision goggles away from his eyes. He pulled a small GPS map device from a pouch and checked it. “Our lookouts initially reported the migrants’ position on one trail. But Fido positively identified the migrants on a different trail, so we had to move quickly to intercept.”

O’Rourke looked skyward as if expecting to see the drone watching him. He felt somewhat reassured that the electronic eyes were watching them, although it still didn’t prevent things from getting a bit chaotic. “So we have two groups of migrants out here tonight?” he asked nervously.

“It appears so,” Geitz said, a bit of concern evident in his voice. “More than likely the first group split up. But the group we’re headed for is very large—the tactical reconnaissance operators in the mobile control van count at least twenty individuals on foot. As soon as we intercept the first group, we’ll turn our attention to the others.”

“Shouldn’t you order your second unit to intercept the other group?” O’Rourke asked. He noticed the worry in Geitz’s voice, which made him doubly concerned. “What if they get away? They could be the smugglers.”

“We’ll use Fido to keep an eye on the smaller group.” Geitz turned back to his radios, leaving O’Rourke alone with his fears. This just wasn’t smelling right.

Thankfully they were apparently in the right position, because they didn’t have to run off again. In just a few minutes the night got very still again. All O’Rourke could see in the total blackness was the tiny blinking red light on Geitz’s belt—staring at it seemed to make it revolve in slow clockwise circles, which was starting to make him a little nauseous. He felt his canteen on his hip—the one filled with bourbon, not water—and thought about reaching for it when he heard…voices. He froze.

They were right in front of him, O’Rourke realized with shock. He could hear their feet scraping the rough earth, hear their anxious voices, hear someone spit, hear another stumble and curse. They sounded rather…workmanlike, like you would hear a group of factory workers or farmers walking together on their way to the entry gates or the barns, getting ready for a hard day ahead. O’Rourke had expected them to sound like guerrilla fighters carrying machine guns and ammo discovered by Special Forces along the Ho Chi Minh trail, not worker bees carrying their lunch pails and thermos bottles.

“I…I can hear them.” O’Rourke spoke into his microphone mask. “I can’t see them, but I can hear them. Commander? You’re using night vision goggles: what do you see?”

“It’s a group of…I count twenty-three individuals,” Geitz whispered, his strained voice barely audible. “I can make out two women. Those on the Internet will be able to view our night vision images on our Web site in just a few minutes. I see the usual assortment of backpacks, garbage bags, numerous one-gallon jugs of water, and rucksacks the migrants carry while traveling. It’s hard to tell their ages, but they look pretty young. I don’t see any children this time.”

“What about calling the Border Patrol?” O’Rourke asked nervously.

“Our tactical control van is relaying the information now,” Geitz said. “We haven’t heard a response about whether or not they’ll head up here yet.”

“Are they carrying any weapons? This sounds very dangerous, Commander…”

“I don’t see any weapons, but I see several persons carrying suspicious bags that could contain weapons, so we’ll have to confront these individuals and do a citizen’s search of their belongings for weapons.” Geitz swung O’Rourke’s microphone away and spoke into his tactical radio.

“Commander Geitz is relaying instructions to his teams,” O’Rourke said. Geitz reached behind him and touched O’Rourke’s arm, telling him to be quiet. “I’ve been told to be quiet,” O’Rourke whispered into the mask. “I don’t know if they can see us, but I’m sure as soon as Commander Geitz judges it’s safe, I’m sure he’ll…”

“Attention! This is the American Watchdog Project! You are surrounded!” Geitz suddenly shouted, using a bullhorn. Then, in stilted but understandable Spanish, he ordered, “?Levante sus manos y no haran dano a usted de ningun modo!” Powerful flashlights popped on, illuminating thirty or forty feet of the trail. The men and women blinked at the lights in confusion and slowly raised their hands. The coyote in the lead of the column of migrants had two cloth pouches over his shoulders. “Drop those pouches, senor,” Geitz ordered. “Deje caer todas sus posesiones!”

The pollos started to comply, looping their backpacks and trash bags off their shoulders. “This is incredible!” O’Rourke said, switching from his microphone mask to a regular handheld mike. “We’ve just burst out of the darkness and surrounded this group of migrants. We have eight men plus Georgie and myself, Geitz’s Alpha Team plus the Bravo Team on the other side of the trail, just carrying flashlights. We’re not showing any weapons, none at all. But the migrants are giving up. They’re stopping and raising their hands in surrender.”

The coyote was a little more defiant. “Hey, whoever you are, vete a la mierda!” he shouted. “We don’t answer to you or nobody!”

“I am Commander Herman Geitz of the American Watchdog Project,” Geitz said over the bullhorn. “Your presence is being reported to the U.S. Border Patrol right now. There is no use running. La permanencia y nosotros le daremos el alimento, el agua, y la medicina.” More migrants began to find a place to sit on the rocky trail—it was obvious they had had enough. “If you try to travel north into the United States, we will track you and continue to report your whereabouts to the U.S. Border Patrol.”

“And if you do not leave us alone, hideputa, you will feel the wrath of Comandante Veracruz and all who honor freedom!” the smuggler shouted back. “Now get out of here! Leave us alone!”

“Alpha Team, this is Fido Control,” came a message from the Pioneer unmanned observation plane’s control team. “How copy, Alpha?”

“Stand by, Fido,” Geitz radioed back.

“Just be advised, Alpha, video is intermittent from Fido, repeat, we’re losing video. Very strong interference. Will advise when it’s back online.”

“Commander Geitz has just offered the migrants food, water, and medicine if they give up and wait for the Border Patrol,” Bob O’Rourke said, after getting a translation from Georgie Wayne. “The leader of this group is a young man with long dark hair, what looks like a green military-style fatigue cap, a red bandanna around his neck, and military-looking boots, probably in his early to mid-twenties. He is carrying two canvas satchels and he hasn’t dropped them yet like most of the migrants have done. He is obviously the coyote, the smuggler. But he is quickly losing control of his clients. Commander Geitz seems very nervous about this young man, mostly because he’s still got those satchels and they look like they could hold a lot of guns and ammo. The situation appears to be getting very tense now.”

“?Dejenos en paz!” the smuggler shouted. “?Veracruz de comandante dice que estamos en el suelo mejicano!”

“What did he say?” O’Rourke asked.

“Something about someone called Commander Veracruz saying he is on Mexican soil,” Georgie replied.

“Is he high? Is he crazy? This is America, not Mexico!” O’Rourke said acidly. “This Veracruz guy is nothing but a rabble-rouser and drug dealer who thinks he’s some hot-shot Mexican version of George Washington.”

“I say again, drop those bags immediately!” Geitz said over the loudspeaker, ignoring the radio call from his observation team. “Usted no sera danado, prometo. You will be allowed to pass after we have searched your possessions for weapons.”

“Screw you, gringo!” the smuggler shouted. “You don’t have no right to do this!”

“Alpha Team, this is Fido. Be advised, we’ve lost our video downlink, but we saw two separate contacts approaching east and west of your position, range less than thirty meters. Recommend you use caution; repeat, we lost the downlink. Do you copy, Alpha?”

“I said, drop those bags, cagado!” Geitz shouted, shining his flashlight directly into the young man’s eyes to try to disorient him.