“I…I think Commander Geitz just called that guy a coward, boss,” Georgie Wayne said. “He ain’t gonna like that.”
Everything was a blur of motion at that moment. Georgie Wayne was right beside O’Rourke with his left hand on his shoulder, trying to get his attention, and when the first shots rang out he immediately pulled the radio personality to the ground and lay on top of him. Men were screaming all around them. The gunshots sounded like firecrackers, punctuated occasionally by a loud “BOOOM!” from a heavy-caliber gun.
It seemed like the shooting lasted an hour, but in reality it was only seconds. O’Rourke waited until all the shooting had subsided; then, with all the courage he could muster, said to Wayne in a low voice, “Get off me, dammit!”
“Stay down, boss…”
“We’re not here to hide like chickens, Georgie! Get off me!” Georgie reluctantly slid off him—O’Rourke found himself committed now to get up, even though his legs were shaking so badly that he might not have been able to make it. “What happened? Did the smugglers open fire?” He looked up and saw Herman Geitz walking beside him, with his sidearm still smoking in his right hand. “Geitz! What happened? Were we attacked by the smugglers?”
Geitz looked down at O’Rourke and opened his mouth as if he was going to reply…but instead, a torrent of blood rushed from his open mouth, his eyes rolled up into his head, and the man pitched over and landed face-first on the rocky ground.
“Oh…my…God!” O’Rourke gasped. Years of experience taught him to never say a word unless he had a switched-on microphone in his hand, and the flood of emotions that came forth were all caught on tape. “Jesus, Commander Geitz has been killed, shot in the head…God, the whole back of his head is
“Yes, boss, yes,” Wayne responded. “I’m going to see if anyone else needs help.”
But Georgie had already taken his recording gear off and was low-crawling along the trail. The members of the American Watchdogs were standing around in dumbfounded shock and disbelief, weapons smoking in their hands, flashlight beams jerking and darting aimlessly in all directions. Wayne moved carefully, not wanting to startle them in case they might start shooting again. He didn’t move very far before he discovered a body. “Oh, Christ, one of the migrants…a woman. Shot in the belly. Another migrant…Jesus, looks like they’re
“This…this is unbelievable,” O’Rourke repeated hoarsely into his microphone. “There has been a massacre on this trail tonight, my friends and listeners, a massacre on an enormous scale. Eight members of the American Watchdog Project, volunteers, men who risked their lives to help patrol this remote and dangerous border region, have…have apparently shot and killed a group of about twenty migrants on this trail. When Commander Herman Geitz ordered the migrants to put down their bags so they could be searched, one of the migrants apparently opened fire, and the Watchdogs returned fire. More shots rang out—shotguns, handguns…the noise and confusion was horrifying. It…it is just plain impossible to put into words.
“Now, just moments later, it appears that everyone…
RAMPART ONE FORWARD OPERATING BASE,
OCATILLO, CALIFORNIA
THE NEXT MORNING
The Mexican Army forces stationed on the border south of Rampart One had just raised their flag, played the “Himno Nacional Mexicano,” and were now policing up their encampment when the new unit arrived. An additional six M-11 ULTRAV armored reconnaissance vehicles and HWK-11 armored personnel carriers, and thirty-three infantrymen, pulled up to the encampment in a cloud of gray dust and noise.
The commander of the new unit, Major Gerardo Azueta, dismounted from his American-made Humvee and stretched his aching legs. Azueta was way too tall and thin to comfortably ride in the bumpy, creaky Humvee, but any opportunity to get out of the garrison and into the field was welcome, especially on a low-risk, cushy, and high-visibility assignment such as this. The current unit commander greeted him with a salute. “Welcome, Major,” Lieutenant Salinas said, introducing himself. “Lieutenant Ignacio Salinas, commander of this detail. Good to see you again, sir.” All officers in the Mexican armed forces were graduates of Chapultepec, the Mexican military academy in Mexico City; the officer cadre was very small and officers in the same state knew and saw each other often. “How was your trip from Mexicali?”
“A nightmare, as usual,” Azueta replied, brushing dust off his olive green uniform. “General Cardenas did not want to send any more companies from state headquarters, so we had to move almost the entire force from Ensenada. It took all day. The regimental commander there said he could not spare any infantry to go along with the vehicles, so he rounded up a bunch of Rural Defense Force militia to accompany us. They are worse than conscripts.”
“We have several in my detail, sir. They shape up quickly when they are away from the garrison.”
“I know you and your men are anxious to get home, Lieutenant, but I am afraid these militiamen are going to go berserk if there is any trouble,” Azueta said. “It will only be for a few days, a week at the most.”
Salinas had already received the notification from his company commander. Most men liked duty in the garrisons, but Salinas was young and liked assignments that took him away from town, no matter how trivial or menial the task. He motioned to a nearby tent and offered the senior officer a canvas camp chair and a plastic bottle of water, which Azueta accepted eagerly. “No problem at all, sir. We are happy to assist.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Status report, please.”
“Things have calmed down considerably these past couple days, sir,” Salinas began. “I am sure you are aware of the recent incident in Arizona.”
“Yes. A bloody act of murder, plain and simple. The American government is entirely to blame, allowing those vigilantes to operate in the border region.”
“I agree completely, sir,” Salinas said. “I hope the president does not let up on her pressure on the Americans to stop this campaign of violence. Fortunately, despite that brutal incident, the situation is quiet here. The American military presence is all but nonexistent as far as we can tell from our position and from American news reports. They are making some attempts to repair and rebuild the facility, but it does not look like the base has been fortified, and there has been no sign of those manned robots. We see the reconnaissance airships and unmanned drones on occasion, and we must assume they and the regular Border Patrol units are operational.”
“And the media?”
“They haven’t been back since yesterday,” Salinas responded, “although I would expect them to return for comments on the murders in Arizona.”
“Let me handle the media now, Lieutenant.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“What about smuggler activity?”
“None in our entire patrol sector, sir,” Salinas said, “which was expected. Having smugglers push all the way
