Edge of Battle (7 page)

“Veracruz. Comandante Veracruz,” Jefferson said. “Named after the Battle of Veracruz, the largest and deadliest U.S. Army battle before the Civil War. It was also America’s first amphibious invasion—twelve thousand soldiers landed on the beach in Veracruz, Mexico, in less than one day. Major General Winfield Scott had the city outnumbered four to one but Scott still refused to negotiate terms of surrender. The Army blasted the city continuously for twelve days. It was a great victory for America but was considered a disgrace and humiliation to Mexico.”

“It almost sounds like you’re sympathetic to the Mexicans, Sergeant,” Kinsly added.

Jefferson turned his whole body toward Kinsly and gave him a look that made little hairs on the back of the Chief of Staff’s neck stand up; Kinsly tried to regain his composure but found his throat had turned completely dry in the blink of an eye. Jefferson’s expression was clear: you are my immediate supervisor, but if I don’t get the simplest sign of respect due me, I’ll rip your head off your pencil-thin neck and shit down your throat.

“Do
not,
” Jefferson began in a voice that was more like a growl, “confuse analysis with sympathy,
Mr.
Kinsly. It’s essential to study the enemy personality, composition, terrain, logistics, and tactical situation in order to identify the enemy’s center of gravity and compose a plan of action. Basic combat strategy.” He took one step toward the Chief of Staff, impaling him with his eyes. “I’d be happy to meet in your office, one on one,
any time,
to discuss it further.
Sir
.”

The President found his own throat a little dry after watching
Jefferson putting Kinsly in his place, and he took a sip of coffee before speaking. “Now it’s the ‘enemy’ we’re talking about, Sergeant Major?” the President asked.

“It is if you tell me it is, sir, yes,” Jefferson said. “As I said, I believe there’s a military solution to the illegal immigration situation, and I’m prepared to implement it whenever I’m given the order. However, I’m pointing out the inherent difficulties created by the historical, anthropological, and cultural situation. We could very well win every battle and lose the war.”

“Why?”

“This Veracruz guy is a known drug smuggler, sir, but he has enormous popularity all around the world for the Mexican cause. He represents a militant backlash to anti-immigration sentiment that’s growing in the United States, fueled by guys like Bob O’Rourke. Veracruz could start an uprising among the migrants in America.”

“An uprising? That’s ridiculous,” Kinsly said. “The Mexicans are here to work and earn money for themselves and their families, not revolt against America. Besides, who is this Veracruz guy? Is he a general? What army does he command?”

“His
audience
can turn into his
army
if we’re not careful,” Jefferson said. “Remember that there are an estimated ten million illegal immigrants in America today, at least a million more enter every year, and over a third of all the live births in the southwest U.S. are children of illegal immigrants. If even ten percent of them decide it’s time to listen to ‘Comandante Veracruz’ and fight, he’d have an army twice as large as Mexico’s itself. He shouldn’t be underestimated.”

C
AJON
J
UNCTION
, C
ALIFORNIA
T
HE NEXT MORNING

Any business consultant would have told them what they already knew: it was the perfect place for an enterprise such as theirs. The area featured ready access to transportation outlets such as Interstate 15, the major freeway artery between Las Vegas and Los Angeles, which made transporting both raw materials and finished product quick, easy, and secure; it was on the edge of the Mojave Desert where land was cheap, but also at the edge of the San Bernardino National Forest so it didn’t seem as if they were actually
in
the desert; and they had ready access to over ten million potential customers, without having to directly compete against the hundreds of other manufacturers scattered around the Los Angeles megalopolis.

Of course, their real market was Los Angeles, but they chose to locate in San Bernardino County instead—along with going up against the competition, they would have to go up against the infinitely better-funded and-organized Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department rather than the much smaller San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department. One had to balance customer service, marketing, and location of facilities with the competition fac
tor, and their competition was not only the other manufacturers, but law enforcement.

This was Ernesto Fuerza’s pride and joy—one of the largest and most successful methamphetamine labs in southern California. Mostly built on trucks and trailers for easy portability and concealment, the lab produced almost a hundred kilos a day of crystal meth, or “speed,” worth almost a hundred thousand dollars; mixed with cheap fillers and sold on the street, the drug could be worth ten to twenty times that amount.

The best part was that it was far less expensive for Fuerza to manufacture meth in the United States than many of his competitors because he received the raw materials from Mexico rather than from the United States, where controls on the sale of the compounds needed to make meth were far less stringent. The same smuggling networks that allowed Ernesto Fuerza to bring hundreds of illegal immigrants a month to the United States also allowed him to import tons of epinephrine, hydrochloric acid, caustic soda, and chlorine gas to his southern California mobile labs for very little cost and almost total security.

Like any successful business owner, it was important for Fuerza to personally oversee his operation, let his employees see the boss regularly on the job site, take a look at the books, inspect the facilities and product, question his staff, and hand out punishment and rewards, and that’s what Fuerza was doing that morning…when they received an unexpected visitor.

As always, the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Methamphetamine Interdiction Tactical Team swept in with black armored Humvees with lights and sirens on. Deputies on foot wearing black fatigues, ballistic helmets, and bulletproof vests led captured lookouts into the compound at gunpoint, and all of the lab workers were quickly rounded up, cuffed with nylon handcuffs, and secured in the middle of the compound. The deputies were especially rough on Fuerza himself, hog-tying, blindfolding, and gagging him and throwing him facedown in the dirt in front of his workers.

“Ernesto, you must be working your men too hard,” said Sergeant Ed Nuñez, commander of the Methamphetamine Interdiction Tactical Team. “My men found your security guys fast asleep.” He looked around at the trailers and trucks and shook his head. “Two tractor-trailers here instead of just one, Ernesto? You didn’t tell me you are using two labs now. You broke the rules, Ernesto, and it’s going to cost you. You’re under arrest. Get him out of here.” Fuerza was pulled up by his arms and dragged across the compound to Nuñez’s Humvee. Just before being thrown into the backseat, Nuñez landed a fierce right cross on Fuerza’s left jaw, causing the smuggler to spin around like a top and slam against the vehicle, with a noticeable spot of blood growing on the outside of the hood covering his head.

Once inside the vehicle, Nuñez removed his helmet, balaclava, and gloves and lit up a cigarette, leaving Fuerza in the backseat still bound and gagged. “I hope for your sake that one of those tractor-trailers is empty, Ernesto, because I’m going to have to confiscate one of them, and I’d hate for you to lose an entire mobile lab. That would be bad for both of our businesses.” He took a deep drag, then removed the hood and gag, leaving the rest of the bindings intact. “What the fuck, Ernesto? We agreed you could keep operating as long as you tossed me a few kilos of product and a few rival smugglers every now and then, and as long as you didn’t get too greedy and try to expand. What’s the matter with you?”

“Listen to me, Nuñez,” Fuerza said. Fuerza was tall, in his late thirties, with long dark hair secured with his signature black and white Middle Eastern–looking “chain-link” bandanna, a long goatee, sunglasses, and wiry features. He moved fluidly and silently—obviously a result of extensive military training. “I might have a deal going that will greatly expand my distribution. I am not trying to screw you, I swear—I am trying to make us both rich…”

“I told you before, ‘Comandante,’ that I don’t want rich and powerful cookers and dealers in this county—I want everybody
kept small time so they don’t attract attention from the state or the feds,” Nuñez said. “Money makes you cookers greedy and stupid, and that hurts everyone. Now you’re going to surrender one of those trucks and a couple of your men to me.”

Fuerza nodded, looking dejected and defeated.
“Talvez,”
he said. “Take the trailers then. Just don’t take my delivery truck, okay? That is important to my business. And don’t run no computer checks.”

“That’s not your call, Ernesto,” Nuñez said, giving the Mexican a mischievous grin. “I’ll need a contract tow company to take the trailers, and I don’t want any outside eyes back-checking my report, so I’ll take the delivery truck instead.”

“Nuñez, I ask you, do not take my delivery truck, please…”

“Sorry, Fuerza. Maybe next time you’ll play straight with me. Stay here until I have your men in the paddy wagon, and then I’ll let you ‘escape.’”

“You greedy bastard. I told you, I have a deal going that will make this lab setup look like a child’s chemistry set. I could use your help.”

“Tell me what this deal is about.”

“I got me an army, Nuñez,” Fuerza said. “I got me some good fighters, real pros. They…”

“More of your pansy Mexican stoners, ‘Comandante’? No thanks.”

“No, not the Rural Defense Corps—these guys are for real. No hassles for you at all. We will not stay in San Bernardino County—we just need safe passage for these guys when I bring them across.”

“Pros, huh? Who are they?”

“You do not want to know who they are, Nuñez,” Fuerza said. “They will take over security and enforcement for my network. All you and your guys need to do is let them through when I tell you they are coming.”

Nuñez thought for a moment; then: “Okay, Ernesto. But I’m raising my fee to twenty thousand a week.”

“
Twenty thousand?
You do less work for more money?”

“You think it’s easy or cheap to explain to the bosses how over a million dollars’ worth of Mexican crank gets discovered in Los Angeles, Riverside, and Imperial Counties every month, but not in San Bernardino County?” Nuñez asked angrily. “There’s a lot more than just my team involved in this, Fuerza—everybody from the state narcotics control bureau to the DA to the fucking newspaper reporters have their hands out. It’s going to cost you big to go big-time.”

“I tell you, Nuñez, back off, and there will be plenty of money for all of us.”

“Twenty thousand a week, starting now,” Nuñez insisted. “Maybe that’ll take care of this sudden urge to expand your operation. Take it, or I’ll confiscate more than just the damned truck.”

“Okay, okay, I will pay,” Fuerza said. “But please, do not go near the delivery truck, and tell your deputies to stay off the computer.”

“Stop whining about that truck, Ernesto,” Nuñez said. “Be thankful I’m not impounding
everything
here and tossing your sorry stupid ass into jail. Now shut up and stay put until I come for you.” Fuerza plopped back on the hard bench seat of the sheriff’s department Humvee and waited.

It did not take long. Nuñez returned a few moments later: “What the hell is going on, Fuerza? We just ran the plates on your truck for wants and warrants, and the whole fucking world exploded on us! Were you involved in some sort of border incident down in Imperial County?”

“I do not know nothing about any border incident, Nuñez. I have been here for…”

“Bullshit, Fuerza. You’re going down big-time, jerkoff. You should have told me what you’re involved with when I first nabbed you. This whole area will be swarming with feds in an hour—the computer reported the tag check to every law enforcement agency on the damned planet. You’ll be lucky if you just end up with life in a federal prison. It’s out of my hands now, asshole.”
He disappeared again, shouting, “Bag up any cash and product you see before the damned feds get here, boys. We’re going to lose this crime scene in just a few minutes, and then we’ll be sucking hind tit as usual. Search that truck good and…”

The gunfight lasted less than a minute. Fuerza heard and felt a few heavy-caliber bullets ricocheting off the Humvee, and he hunkered down on the floor until it was over, then sat up and shouted,
“Coronel, aquí.”

A few moments later, the door of the Humvee opened up, and Yegor Zakharov appeared, aiming a pistol inside the vehicle. He glared angrily at Fuerza. “You drove us to an ambush with the
police?
” Zakharov shouted. “I should kill your ass right now!”

“It was a shakedown, Colonel—that deputy is even more crooked and greedy than you,” Fuerza said. He turned around, and Zakharov cut off the plastic handcuffs. “Usually a few thousand dollars and some lab equipment and empty chemical drums satisfies him, but he was looking for more this time.”

“What happened to your security? Don’t you have anyone guarding this damned place?”

“We can talk about that later, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “Right now, I suggest we collect all the money, weapons, and product we can and get out of here before the
real
police arrive.”

O
VER SOUTHERN
C
ALIFORNIA
T
HE NEXT DAY

The shadow flitted across the hard-baked sand in an instant, so quickly that no one really noticed it. Eyes seared by the sun, stinging from sand, salt, and sweat, it was not hard to understand. Most eyes were concentrating on the path ahead, not on the sky. A false step could result in a twisted ankle or nasty fall, and that would delay everyone. Besides, shadows from birds flying overhead were common—usually the birds were buzzards or California condors,
large carrion birds looking for animals in distress below for their afternoon meal. Humans were not on their preferred menu, but if one fell and looked as if it was dead or incapacitated, they would circle overhead and wait patiently until it died all the same.

This time, however, the shadow overhead was not from a living animal, although even from close-up it resembled a very large Canada goose. It moved slowly, no more than ten to fifteen knots depending on the winds, flying just five hundred feet above ground. It had very long thin wings with ducted turboprop engines underneath, a long neck, a large bulbous body that was not as long as the wingspan, and a broad flat tail.

The group of fifteen Mexicans crossing the desert stopped for a water and pee break, and it was then that one of the men noticed the shadow, looked up, and saw the flying object overhead. “What is it?” the man asked.

“Shh!
¡Escuche!
” the coyote leader ordered. Now they could hear the faint, low, throaty sound of the device’s small jet engine, and that made everyone in the group upset. “It is a reconnaissance aircraft, probably Border Patrol.”

“They will catch us for sure!”

“Maybe,” the leader said. He unslung his backpack and quickly pulled out a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun. “But they’ll have one less eye in the sky to bother us the next time we cross.” He found it child’s play to track the spy plane because it was moving so slowly, and he squeezed off a shot.

“You fool! They will hear you!” one of the other coyotes complained.

“We are twenty miles from the nearest road and thirty miles to the nearest town—no one will hear this small rifle,” the shooter said. He fired again, then reloaded.

“That little popgun isn’t going to hit it from this distance, you idiot!” one of the
pollos
shouted. But just then the little aircraft turned sharply to the north and started to fly away.

“Not going to hit it, eh?” the coyote said happily. “Too bad it got away—I really wanted to see that thing come spinning out of the
sky, like a wounded duck,” he said gleefully. “Let’s get moving. The more distance we can put between us and this spot, the…”

“¿Cuál es ése?”
one of the
pollos
suddenly exclaimed. The coyote looked in the direction of the migrant’s outstretched arm. There, at the top of a small rise about a hundred yards before them, was a…well, it was impossible to tell
what
it was. It resembled some sort of child’s toy robot, with broad chest and shoulders, bulbous head, slim waist, and large metallic arms and legs, but it was about nine or ten feet tall. It had appeared out of nowhere—none of the sparse vegetation for miles around could have possibly hidden that thing.

One of the
pollos
unslung his backpack and reached inside it, but another stopped him. “No, don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t you recognize it? I saw it on TV, back during the attacks on Houston and Washington.
Usted no puede matarle
.” The first man took his hand out of the backpack but kept it close.

“Whatever it is, let’s get away from it,” the coyote said. But as they moved a little farther east to try to get around it, the robot thing moved with them—it made no move to walk toward them, but simply shadowed their movements. “It’s moving with us, but it’s not making any attempt to stop us. Maybe it doesn’t belong to the Border Patrol?”