Edge of Battle

had one air-to-air missile missing from its wingtip pylon, while the wingman still had both of his missiles, which appeared to be AIM-9L Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles. Had those American jets accidentally fired on a Marine Corps helicopter? He knew the U.S. Air Force and Navy flew the F-5 as an “adversary” fighter, its pilot trained to mimic air-to-air engagement tactics of various enemy air forces; certainly the Navy base at El Centro had several F-5s in its “Aggressor” squadron. But it was incredible that it would accidentally shoot down one of its own aircraft! Zakharov’s head was swimming in confusion. What was going on…?

No, they weren’t American jets, he realized—they were Mexican jets! The Mexican Air Force flew two squadrons of F-5E Freedom Fighter jets as air defense interceptors, one squadron in the south and one over the capital. What in the world were they doing here, firing missiles at American helicopters in American airspace?

Through the smoke and fires raging all around him, four more helicopters arrived—small single-pilot McDonnell-Douglas MD530 light counterinsurgency attack helicopters, their official markings blacked out on the sides of the fuselage, each fitted with rocket launchers and machine guns on their landing skids. While three of the helicopters hovered nearby on patrol, pedal-turning in all directions on guard for any pursuit, one set down on a road intersection across the canal. Zakharov didn’t hesitate—he ran as fast as he could across the bridge. The right side door to the helicopter had been removed, making it easy for him to climb aboard.

“Coronel Zakharov?” the pilot shouted in Spanish when the Russian climbed inside.

“Si!” Zakharov shouted. The pilot’s face was obscured by the helmet’s smoked visor. “Who are you?”

“A friend. Get in, quickly!”

Zakharov pulled his sidearm and aimed it at the pilot. “I said, who are you?”

“?Usted no me cree, Coronel?” the pilot asked in good Spanish, smiling. “If I’m an American agent, perhaps you are captured—but if I leave you here in this burning wheat field, in five minutes you are definitely captured.”

“Answer me!”

The pilot smiled again, then lifted the dark visor. “Believe me now, Colonel? Now get in, sir.” Zakharov smiled broadly, then scrambled inside and hurriedly pulled on shoulder straps. The helicopter lifted off and stood guard. One by one the other helicopters alighted. The CID unit was strapped onto the landing skids of one helicopter; Richter and the Russian commando boarded the other two helicopters, and soon all four Mexican helicopters were speeding southward at treetop level, crossing the border into safety just moments later.

HENDERSON, NEVADA

A SHORT TIME LATER

The recorded commercial message abruptly cut off, and Bob O’Rourke’s voice, shaking and unusually muted, came on moments later: “This flash message has just been handed to me, ladies and gentlemen, from the news wire services. Just minutes ago, down near the California-Mexico border near El Centro, a U.S. Marine Corps helicopter was shot down by a Mexican Air Force fighter jet. The two crew members were killed instantly. Yes, you heard me correctly: reports are that a U.S. military helicopter was shot down by the armed forces of the republic of Mexico, just moments ago.”

O’Rourke paused briefly, making no attempt at all to muffle his labored breathing. He had bandages on the left side of his face from the incident in the Arizona mountains with the American Watchdog Project, along with elastic bandages securing a broken rib, from when Georgie Wayne jumped on top of him; his left arm was in an elastic bandage too from a strain, which he always put in a sling whenever he knew he was going to be photographed. He looked every inch the combat veteran he wanted to appear to be. “Eyewitness accounts made by the Imperial County Sheriff’s Department and the U.S. Navy report that law enforcement agencies, assisted by military search teams from Naval Air Facility El Centro, were searching for terrorists discovered farther north near Niland, California, who were trying to escape across the border into Mexico. The terrorists were armed with sophisticated weapons including shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons and sniper rifles, and they had apparently attacked other law enforcement pursuers with these weapons. But when an armed Marine Corps Super Cobra helicopter gunship tried to corner the terrorists just a few miles north of the border, it was shot down by an air-to- air missile fired from a Mexican Air Force F-5 Freedom Fighter jet, made in the U.S. and sold to Mexico for air defense purposes. One, perhaps two terrorists are believed to have escaped across the border.

“The death toll—the American death toll—in this whole incredible bloody ordeal is five, with two California Highway Patrol officers killed and one seriously injured when their helicopter was shot down by the terrorists, and three U.S. Marine Corps officers killed and one slightly injured when their choppers were downed, one by the terrorists and one—I still can’t believe this has happened, folks—one by a Mexican Air Force fighter jet. One terrorist was killed by the Marine Corps after he attacked the CHP helicopter; the other terrorist, as I said, escaped in the carnage and confusion.

“This horrible incident follows the initial discovery of the terrorists in Niland, California, a farming community about forty miles from the border in the Imperial Valley agricultural region. Four armed terrorists opened fire on Border Patrol agents, injuring two. The terrorists also attacked several farmworkers, killing seven. The farmworkers killed two of the terrorists with farm tools before the others escaped. The terrorists stole two vehicles as they made their way toward the Mexican border.”

O’Rourke paused briefly, taking another deep, audible breath, before continuing: “We don’t yet know who the terrorists were—what nationality, what religious persuasion, what group or cell they belong to. They could be home-grown terrorists, or they could be Mexican, or they could be the return of the Consortium that created so much death and destruction in this country last year. But in the end it doesn’t matter. The threat is real, it exists, and we need to deal with now.

“Is there any doubt in your minds now, my friends, that America is in a real shooting war with terrorists—and that the Mexican border is now their primary avenue of infiltration and escape? Is there any doubt of the Mexican government’s duplicity, if not their complete and total involvement, in terror attacks against American law enforcement, attempting to coerce our lawmakers into enacting more open immigration legislation? A more important question here is: how should the United States respond to this horrible, bloody attack?

“There is no question in my mind, ladies and gentlemen, that the U.S.-Mexico border should be considered hostile territory, and any persons found crossing the border or even approaching the frontier should be considered hostile enemy combatants, not just illegal migrants. Every one of those one million illegal immigrants who make it into this country every year should be considered threats to American peace and security and possible terrorists and insurgents. If the intruders are wearing uniforms, they should be stopped by all means necessary, including use of deadly force, and if captured they should be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Conventions. If they are not wearing uniforms, they should be imprisoned and treated as spies and saboteurs, not subject to the Geneva Conventions; and if found guilty of any crime against the United States, they should be executed. No exceptions!

“I call on President Samuel Conrad to declare a federal state of emergency in all of the border states, and to immediately dispatch the National Guard to seal off the borders and use all means necessary, including deadly force, to repel anyone approaching the border. Full air defense measures should be instituted, including round-the- clock air patrols and Patriot air defense weapons, to prevent any more incursions into U.S. airspace.”

O’Rourke paused once more, and his producer Fand Kent saw something in his face that made her skin crawl. She hit the intercom button: “Bob, what are you going to say now?”

“You know what I’m going to say, Fonda,” he said darkly.

“I’m going to commercial. Let’s talk about it first.”

“No.”

“Bob, take a deep breath, and send us over to commercial,” she said, quickly cueing up two minutes of recordings. “I’ve got two minutes in the computer right now, and then we can go to news a little early and put in another ninety seconds…”

“I said no.”