Authors: Dale Brown
Through his imaging infrared sensor, Captain Frank “Falcon” Falcone aboard CID One could see the desert landscape even clearer than in the shimmering, eye-burning daytime—and the migrants stood out even clearer, even at ranges in excess of two miles. “Two down here,” he radioed. “I’m going after the group of five.”
“We have a good eyeball on you, Falcon,” Ariadna Vega said. She was back at the first Rampart forward operating location constructed as part of the presidential directive to fortify the U.S.-Mexico border, located about eight miles southeast. She was watching images broadcast from an unmanned reconnaissance vehicle called a Condor, orbiting overhead in a racetrack pattern in this often-used migrant border-crossing area. “The last guy in your group looks like he’s giving up.” She could clearly see the third runner with his hands on his head, walking in the direction from where he came. “The group of five have split up into two groups, Charlie and Delta. Delta looks like the group of three.”
“Got ’em,” Falcone said. Every time he moved his head, his electronic visor showed small lettered arrows where the Condor’s targeting sensors had locked onto a person. “On the way.” Falcone turned in the direction of the Delta arrow and started off in a fast trot, quickly reaching thirty miles an hour and catching up to the runners with ease. He ran past them, then stopped about fifty yards in front of their path and watched as they ran toward him. When they got closer he broadcast, “
Los hombres, éste son la fron
tera patrullan
Operation Rampart.
Por favor parada. No le dañaré. ‘
Please stop. I won’t hurt you.’”
“¡Déjenos solos, híbrido!”
one of them shouted. Falcone reached out just as one was about to run past him and gave him a push, sending him flying and crashing into the hard-baked earth. Another really big
pollo,
shining his flashlight on the CID unit before him, gasped aloud, swore, ran toward Falcone, jumped, and kicked out with both feet as if he was trying to break down a door. Falcone wasn’t prepared for the jump-kick and didn’t brace himself; he staggered backward a few steps when the big Mexican hit.
“¿No tan resistente, eh, cerdo?”
the third man shouted gleefully. “You messed with the wrong
toro
tonight,
culo!
” Out of nowhere he produced an Intratec TEC-9 nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, leveled it, and opened fire, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. The second migrant screamed, trying to tell the third not to shoot, then covering his ears and flattening himself on the ground as the machine gun erupted.
“Eso no era muy elegante, amigo,”
Falcone said through his electronic translator. The migrant’s shots were running wild; Falcone was sure he had not been hit; and the rusty sand-coated gun jammed after the fifth or sixth round—but still, something happened to Frank Falcone in the next few milliseconds that he could not explain. Maybe it was just piloting the CID unit; maybe it was the excitement of the night patrol…he didn’t think, he just reacted. Moving with breathtaking speed, Falcone rushed at the gunman, and like a football linebacker running at full speed, tackled him with his right shoulder.
The Cybernetic Infantry Device robots were not heavy—the CID unit with Falcone aboard weighed less than three hundred and fifty pounds—but at the speed Falcone was moving, the impact was like getting hit by a car traveling over thirty miles an hour. The entire force of the impact of the CID unit’s shoulder centered squarely on the migrant’s left lung and heart, crushing his sternum and rib cage and driving pieces of bone through both
organs. The man did not have enough breath to cough out the chestful of blood flooding his throat and right lung, and he died within moments.
“Oh,
Christ!
” Falcone cursed. “Control, CID One, I have a suspect down my position. I tackled the guy, and it looks like I really bashed him. I’m dismounting.”
“We registered gunshots, One,” Ariadna radioed. “Do not dismount until we can secure the area.” There was no response. “CID One, do you read me? Falcon, answer up.”
But Falcone had already climbed out of the CID unit and gone over to the gunman with a flashlight and first-aid kit from the CID unit’s dismount container, a device resembling a fanny pack attached to the back of the robot. It did not take long for him to make an assessment—the guy was definitely dead. Falcone went back to the dismount container and retrieved a wireless headset. “Ari? Falcon. He’s dead. Send a Border Patrol van with a medical examiner.”
Ariadna was already talking excitedly when Falcone released the Transmit key: “…converging on your position, repeat, Frank, I see two unknowns moving in on your position! Do you copy?”
“I copy, Ari. Which direc…?” He was interrupted by the sound of bullets ricocheting off the CID unit beside him.
“Shots fired, Ari!”
he radioed. “Where are they?”
“West of your position, Frank!” Ari responded. “Get down! Take cover!”
Falcone hit the ground and crawled behind the CID unit. He heard more gunshots, but no more bullets hit the robot or the earth around him. He tried to reach up to the dismount container to retrieve the wrist remote controller, but excited voices in Spanish and more gunshots made him duck again for cover. They were close,
very
close. Flashlight beams started to arc in his direction. “They’re almost on me, Ari,” Falcone said. “Take control of CID One and take ’em out!”
“Roger, Falcon,” Vega responded. Moments later the hatch on the back of the CID unit snapped shut, and the big robot lumbered
to life. “
¡Caiga sus armas! ¡Ésta es su advertencia pasada!”
Ariadna radioed through the robot via the satellite datalink. She raised the robot’s hands and arms menacingly, steering the robot toward the oncoming migrants, hopefully enough to scare them off but not too far away to expose Falcone. The robot had no weapons, and the satellite downlink was very slow—the robot would be able to do little else but walk and talk under her control…
…and at that moment, it appeared as if the gunmen figured that detail out, for they immediately split up and started to flank the robot, circling it and moving closer to Falcone. Ari had no choice but to make the CID unit step back to protect Falcone.
“¿Cuál es incorrecto, Señor Robot?”
one of the gunmen asked. “Not so tough now, are you?”
“¡Mate al poli y salgamos de aquí!”
the other gunman shouted. “Send him to hell and let’s…
aaiieee!
” Suddenly the second gunman’s voice was cut off with a strangled scream. The first gunman swung his flashlight around toward his comrade and saw a large metal container of some kind lying on the ground next to the unconscious second gunman. The first gunman cried out, dropped his weapon, and ran off.
“You okay, Falcon?” Jason Richter radioed. A few moments later, CID Two ran up to where Falcone was still lying prone on the desert floor, and Jason dismounted.
“I’m okay,” Falcone replied. They checked the unconscious gunman together. “What’d you hit him with, boss?”
“The only thing I had on me—the dismount container,” Jason said. “Good thing the laser targeting system was still up and running. Where’s the first attacker?”
Falcone showed him where the dead gunman was. “I recommend we bring weapons next time, boss,” Falcone said.
Jason had seen his share of casualties in his short tenure as commander of Task Force TALON, but the condition of this corpse still made him a little queasy—it looked as if his chest had been flattened all the way to his spine, rupturing and smearing all of his internal organs throughout what was left of his body and all
around him on the ground. There was no doubt, Jason thought ruefully, that no matter how violent these migrants had been, TALON was still going to take some heat for killing one like this.
“If there
is
a next time, Falcon,” Jason said. “If there is a next time.”
R
AMPART
O
NE
F
ORWARD
O
PERATING
L
OCATION
,
B
OULEVARD
, C
ALIFORNIA
T
HE NEXT MORNING
Army National Guard Captain Ben Gray of the 1st Battalion, 185th Infantry, finished his early-morning jog along Highway 98, poured some water from a plastic bottle over his head, then took a sip. It was barely an hour after dawn, and already it had to be in the low seventies here in the deserts of southern California. In another couple hours, he guessed, the pavement would be too hot to run on.
Gray, a California Highway Patrol Academy firearms instructor who lived near Fairfield, California, was an infantry company commander with the California Army National Guard, stationed in San Jose. Running was a way of 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 a chance to wash my hair once a week then—here, the detainees can take a shower once a day if they like. The tents we had then were for shit—we couldn’t keep the sand out no matter how hard we tried to seal things up. These TEMPERs are pretty tight.”
They moved on to the next section of the detention facility. There were about two dozen chain-link cells with a cot, a “honey bucket” with a toilet seat, and a small open table next to the cot—no privacy whatsoever. The pens were covered with a large tent, which afforded a little protection against the sun and wind. There was also an open shower station with a few fiberglass shower stalls. Fifteen of the twenty-four stalls were occupied. “This area is for the violent or uncooperative detainees or any criminal suspects,” Gray explained. “Security is a big concern, which is why these cells are completely open. We’re hoping just the sight of these facilities will induce detainees to cooperate once they’re in custody.”
“Where are the gunmen from last night?” Jason asked.
“The two injured migrants were transported to the Border Patrol lockup in San Diego,” Gray said. “Imperial County Sheriff’s Department took the body of the dead migrant to El Centro; it’ll be turned over to the FBI later this morning.”
“Those cells are little more than damned dog-pens!” Ariadna suddenly blurted out disgustedly. “They remind me of the cages at Guantanamo Bay when the terrorist prison was first set up.”
Now Ben Gray was starting to look perturbed at Ariadna’s reactions. “I guess they’re pretty substandard to your way of thinking, Dr. Vega,” he said stonily, “but we put only the worst of the worst here. It’s not meant to be comfortable—it’s meant to keep the bad ones away from the other detainees and to keep our personnel safe until they can be put into the justice system.”
“Ben, I didn’t mean…”
“We’re in the middle of the desert out here, Dr. Vega,” Gray interrupted. “I’ve been given a tough job and not a lot of time to do it in, and if I may say so myself my men and I have done a pretty damned fine job putting this FOL together. If it doesn’t meet with your approval, then I suggest you take your suggestions or comments up the chain of command.”
“As you were, Captain,” Jason said. “Ariadna is just reacting out loud—she’s not commenting on the good job you and your men have done out here.”
“That’s right, Ben,” Ari said. “I’m sorry.” Gray nodded coldly at her, unsure whether to accept her apology or not.
Jason looked at his watch, thanking the powers that be that it was almost time to meet the arriving team members—things were already getting pretty tense here. He wisely took the lead toward the clearing on the north side of the compound, which he knew would allow Gray and Vega to walk together. Ari took the opportunity given her by her longtime friend and partner and touched Ben Gray’s BDU sleeve: “Hey, Ben, I’m really sorry.”
“Forget it, Dr. Vega.”
“I can tell you’re hurting too,” she said. He turned halfway to her and gave her an irritated scowl. “The last thing I think you wanted to do in the Guard is build and run a detention camp, and here I come criticizing your mission.”
“I do what I’m ordered to do,” Gray said. “I don’t have any expectations or preferences—I do the job I’m assigned to the best of my abilities.”
Ari trotted up to catch up, walking closely beside him. “That’s it?” she asked gently.
“What do you mean, ‘That’s it?’ What else is there?”
“I want to know how you feel about imprisoning foreigners in a place like this, out in the middle of nowhere in conditions hardly suited to farm animals, let alone human beings,” Ari said. “Is this the America you swore to protect and defend?”
“It is now, Ari,” Gray said perturbedly. “Listen, they know it’s illegal to cross the borders at other than established crossing points…”
“Maybe they do, but they do it just for a chance to work, to make better lives for themselves…”
“The ‘why’ is just a mitigating factor, Ari—they’re still doing something illegal,” Gray said. “The ‘why’ doesn’t excuse their actions, only lessens their punishment and allows them greater consideration. The reason why that entire detention facility isn’t one big set of chain-link dog-pens is that few illegal aliens are like the ones that murdered those Border Patrol agents.”
“But we’re treating every illegal migrant the same when we throw them into facilities like this, aren’t we?” Ari asked. “The vast majority of migrants are peaceful, God-fearing, law-abiding persons…”