Edge of Battle

Albuquerque wanted to do some training out at the Pecos East training ranges near TALON’s home base,” he said. “They’re bringing a CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor, an HC-130 aerial refueler, and maybe an MC-130 Combat Shadow transport to practice some covert insertion procedures, possibly with ground and air enemy pursuing forces.”

“Is that right?” Ari asked inquisitively. “I don’t recall being notified of any special ops guys wanting to use our ranges.”

“I think if you check your recollection, ma’am, that they’ll be out that way later on today,” Jefferson deadpanned. He quickly typed out a message to his assistant on the computer terminal in front of him to get the commander of the 58th SOW on the telephone for him. “That might be a good time to get together with them and plan some joint training exercises with TALON and Director DeLaine’s Hostage Rescue Teams.”

“What a great idea, Sergeant Major,” Ariadna said happily. “In all the confusion, I must’ve missed it in my scheduler. We’ll be waiting for them.”

SOUTH OF THE U.S.-MEXICO BORDER,

NEAR RAMPART ONE, BOULEVARD, CALIFORNIA

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

Sergeant Ed Herlihey finished his cup of coffee before it got cold, picked up his binocular night vision device, and carefully scanned the desert landscape to the south from just outside the front passenger seat of his Humvee. He saw nothing but a lone coyote, on the hunt just before bedding down for the day. That chap was safer out here than any other animals prowling the night, he thought.

Things had been fairly quiet lately out on this stretch of desert east of Rampart One, the first dedicated border security base established by the U.S. military. He had seen fewer migrants out this way, although he knew that the National Guard presence had simply forced the migrants farther out into the remote desert sections of Arizona and New Mexico. But if he never ran into another poor migrant out here, half-dead from walking across the scorching desert to make it to his job in the United States, he would be very happy.

“Flatbush Seven, Flatbush,” his radio crackled.

Herlihey turned up the volume again and picked up the microphone. His driver, Private First Class Henry Stargell, briefly awoke but drifted quickly back to sleep. It was almost time for them to move to a different observation point anyway. Although he knew it was against the regs, Herlihey let Stargell nap so he would stay as sharp and alert as possible. This assignment was tough enough without having punchy soldiers driving expensive rigs out in the desert. He keyed the mike button: “Seven, go.”

“The bird has a possible sighting east of your position, heading in your direction.” Herlihey copied down the grid coordinates of the contact as it was read to him. The “bird” referred to their unmanned aerial vehicle, an unarmed Predator drone being used for aerial reconnaissance. “Multiple individuals. No weapons observed.”

“Copy all. On our way.” Herlihey punched in the grid coordinates of the contact into his GPS navigation computer and studied the high-resolution terrain contour map. “Okay, Hank, fire her up.” The young private could wake up and swing into action even faster than he could drop off to sleep, and within moments he had his night vision gear on and was following the navigation prompts. The Humvee was equipped with infrared headlights and an infrared searchlight that could illuminate the terrain for almost a mile but was invisible to anyone not wearing night vision equipment, so driving across the desert was fairly safe and easy.

After about two miles, very close to the target coordinates, they came on a body lying in the desert. “Oh, shit, not another one,” Herhiley moaned. “That’s the second one on this shift alone.”

“I’ll take care of it, Sarge,” Stargell said. “You got the last one.”

“No, I’ll do it,” Herlihey said. “Radio it in and send the bird on its way.”

“Roger. Holler if you need any help.” Stargell picked up the microphone: “Flatbush, Seven, made contact with one individual at the target coordinates, looks like a DOA. Secure the bird and send a wagon.”

“Wilco, Seven,” the company radio operator responded.

Meanwhile, Herlihey went to the back of the Humvee and brought a duffel bag with the necessary items in it, first and foremost of which was a digital camera. Using a regular flashlight, he approached the body, snapping pictures every few paces. Stargell watched him from the cab of the Humvee for a few moments until Herlihey reached the body, then drifted off to sleep.

He wasn’t sure exactly how long it was, but it seemed like only moments later when the radio blared to life again: “Flatbush Seven, Flatbush, how copy?”

Stargell picked up the microphone: “Loud and clear, Flatbush. Go ahead.”

“The Bravo wagon is on its way, ETE five mike.” Bravo was the National Guard’s shorthand for the Border Patrol. “Have you secured the scene yet?”

“Stand by, Flatbush, and I’ll check with the sarge.” He stepped out of the Humvee and started toward where they had found the body. Herlihey was stooped over the body, which appeared to be that of a Hispanic woman. “Hey, Sarge, Control says the wagon is a couple minutes out and they want to…”

Stargell froze in absolute horror. Herlihey was not stooped over the woman—he was on top of her, between her legs, with his BDU pants down around his knees. The woman was struggling to free herself. She had a rock in her left hand. Blood was streaming from the right side of Herlihey’s face, and he appeared to be unconscious. “Sarge!” he shouted. “What in hell did you do?”

“?Ayudeme! ?Este hombre trato de violarme!” the woman shouted when she heard Stargell. “?Socorro!”

“Jesus Christ!” Stargell exclaimed. He rushed over, grabbed Herlihey, and pulled him off the woman. Her dress was pulled up to her chest, the top of her dress was ripped apart, her panties were ripped off on one side, and her breasts exposed. The woman immediately tried to get to her feet, but she was too weak and scared to get up, so she tried crawling away. Stargell felt for a pulse and found one. “Sarge? Can you hear me? Are you okay?” He heard a moan and felt relieved.

At that moment he saw a set of bouncing headlight beams coming toward them. The Border Patrol unit from Rampart One had arrived, bouncing quickly across the desert. Soon flashlight beams were heading in their direction. “Oh my God,” Stargell heard someone exclaim.

“The sarge was clobbered over the head.”

“What the fuck? Did he rape that woman?”

“No…I mean, I didn’t see anything…”

“God damn, Private, what the hell do you mean, you didn’t see anything?” the Border Patrol agent said angrily. “Your partner is out here in the desert right in front of your face and you didn’t see a thing?” He keyed a microphone clipped to his jacket. “Control, Unit Ten, I need a supervisor out here, and I need one now.”

“What is your situation, Ten?” the duty officer responded.

“I have a code ten-one-oh-six, signal thirty-five. Get a supervisor out here.”

There was a short silence; then: “Say again, Ten? You have a signal thirty-five? Aren’t you foxtrot-one-one with a Rampart unit?”

“Dammit, Control, just get a supervisor out here, right now. And stay off the air until we get this scene cleaned up. Out.”

CHAPTER 9

THE FEDERAL DISTRICT, MEXICO CITY,

MEXICO