“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.”
CHAPTER 3
RAMPART ONE FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION,
BOULEVARD, CALIFORNIA
THE 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.