…just in time to see a large figure—not a man, but a man-shaped figure as big as a church doorway. The thing was about ten feet tall, with a ribbed frame throughout with a light gray covering underneath. Its arms were attached to broad shoulders, thinning down to a slender waist, but its legs and feet were wide and very steady-looking. Its head was bullet-shaped, with a variety of sensors attached all around it. But the most unusual thing about the robot is how it moved. It was remarkably agile and incredibly humanlike in all its movements, with every human nuance duplicated with amazing precision. As they watched, the thing darted away and was gone in the blink of an eye into the darkness.
One of the pollos tried to get up and run, but he stumbled into a thorny bush in the darkness, and the energy simply drained out of his body. The second man started scrambling across the desert on his hands and knees, but finally gave up as well and rejoined his dazed amigo.
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 frontera 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.