“We’ll make sure we don’t get caught defenseless when we set up the next base, sir,” Jefferson said. “We were ready to deal with violence from migrants, smugglers, and detainees, not from the Mexican government. That will not happen the next time.”
“If there’ll be a next time,” Lemke said.
“Sergeant Major Jefferson, make sure that the personnel at Rampart One defend themselves to the utmost—they can use Richter’s robots if absolutely necessary,” the President ordered. “But no one interferes with the Mexican Army or the detainees. I don’t want a gun battle breaking out.”
“I’ll pass the word, sir,” Jefferson said, and he immediately picked up a telephone in the Oval Office to issue the orders.
It did not take long for chaos to erupt at Rampart One. The detention facility fence finally came down, injuring two men; several persons were badly cut when the tidal surge of detainees tried to run over the chain-link fencing and razor wire on their way out—it almost seemed as if some human bodies were being used by the crowd to bridge the wire. Women carrying children and old men were roughly pushed aside by the younger men on their scramble to freedom; dozens of detainees were screaming in pain. Detainees who hadn’t yet left the yard started running into other housing tents, emerging moments later carrying blankets, jugs of water, and personal items.
Outside the toppled fencing, Gray had stationed his men around the headquarters unit, maintenance facility with its power generators and fuel storage, medical unit, and the cages in which the more violent or criminally suspect individuals were kept—all other areas were unguarded, as the escaped detainees quickly discovered. The mess tents, barracks, legal aid unit, and personnel break units were completely overrun. The escapees filled their arms and pockets with food, bottles of water, and any personal effects they could find, like clothing, radios, game machines, and computers; the ones who emerged from the tents with nothing ransacked the place on their way out.
“¡Allá! Over there!” shouted Díaz’s voice from a loudspeaker on the helicopter. He began gesturing toward the dog-pens as his bodyguards struggled to keep him from falling out of the helicopter’s open door. “More of our people are being held prisoner! ¡Láncelos!”
At Díaz’s urging, a dozen men approached the prisoner cages, grabbing anything they could use as a weapon—chairs, shovels, kitchen tools, and pieces of pipe from the collapsed fencing. The National Guardsmen guarding the pens quickly found themselves outnumbered. “Rampart One, this is Seven, we have a situation here, am I cleared to engage?” one of the fearful guards radioed. “Am I clear to fire?”
“Sir?” Ben Gray asked.
“Negative—not yet,” Richter replied. On his command radio, he spoke: “CID One, respond to the prisoner cages, protect the Rampart personnel, and do not allow any prisoners to be freed. Use minimal force if possible.”
“Roger,” Falcone responded immediately. Within moments he was at the cages, standing between two guards. One of the guards had his rifle shouldered and had a tear gas canister launcher ready; the other guard still had his M-16 rifle at port arms.
“Rampart Seven, this is Rampart One, weapons tight, don your gas masks,” Gray ordered. The two Guardsmen complied immediately, shouldering their rifles and hurriedly donning their M40A1 gas masks. The angry escapees immediately began to throw their weapons at them, and the Guardsmen stepped behind the CID unit to avoid being hit by the projectiles.
“Seven, this is Condor!” Ariadna shouted on the command net. She had been scanning the area as the detainees fled, then the area in front of the cages as the angry escapees approached, and had just zoomed out for a wider look. “Several detainees approaching your position from behind! Look out!”
But her warning came too late. A group of five men had sneaked around behind CID One and the distracted Guardsmen. Before they could react, the men grabbed for their rifles, and after a brief struggle managed to wrestle them away from the soldiers. A tear gas canister ignited, covering the area with yellowish smoke.
“They got the rifles!” Ariadna radioed. “Watch out! Falcon, two beside you…”
“I’ve got ’em, Ari,” Falcone said. But it was not as easy as he thought. He was instantly pounced upon by the escapees, with as many as three men holding onto one arm. It was impossible to move slowly and carefully anymore with so many escapees on him—Falcone had no choice but to use the CID’s strength to flick the men off. Bodies started flying everywhere, and he couldn’t tell if the persons he was throwing around were attackers or onlookers, men, women, or children. Gunshots erupted, first just a few, then several on full automatic. Agonizing screams soon mixed in with the gunshots.
The helicopters overhead no longer avoided overflying the base—they circled right overhead now, their rotor wash helping to clear the tear gas. When the smoke cleared moments later, the television cameras saw the Cybernetic Infantry Device…
…surrounded by two dozen prisoners and escapees strewn about like debris after a tornado, none moving. It was a scene of absolute horrific carnage. Blood covered everything. Some of the bodies looked mangled, their limbs twisted in grotesque angles; one detainee was stuck on CID One’s left knee, his dislocated arm caught in one of the robot’s joints, being dragged around like an errant leaf or scrap of paper. When Falcone finally noticed the person stuck to him, he reached down and pulled the man off, leaving part of his hand and wrist still jammed on the robot, blood spurting everywhere like a leaky garden hose. Unthinking, Falcone tossed the man aside as if the body was nothing more than a piece of paper stuck to the bottom of his boots.
It was all captured on international television, live.
“Oh…my…God…” the President breathed as he watched the ghastly sight on his TV monitors. All of the major broadcast, cable, and satellite stations were playing the live video now.
“Mr. President, we’re going to need to clear that airspace so we can get emergency medical units out there,” Ray Jefferson said. “I suggest we request the California Highway Patrol respond first until we can get the National Guard out there.”
“Do it,” the President said in a whisper. He moved to the window behind his desk and stared out the window. Jefferson picked up a phone to issue instructions.
“Falcone…he’s getting out of the robot,” White House Chief of Staff Kinsly remarked. “This is the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen on television. I still can’t believe what I just saw.”
“Falcone has got to be prosecuted,” Attorney General Wentworth said. “The Mexican government…no, the world will demand nothing less.” A moment later, he asked, “So what’s he doing now, Jefferson?”
“Sergeant Major, have that man placed under arrest,” the President said, still staring out the window into the Rose Garden.
“No need, Mr. President,” Jefferson responded.
The President whirled around and stared in utter disbelief at his National Security Adviser. “What did you say to me, Jefferson?” he roared. “I ordered you to place Falcone under arrest! He’s got to be a lunatic! Even if he didn’t kill any of those people, he precipitated this entire episode by his actions! He’s going to go to prison for a very, very long time. He…” The President stopped, finally noticing that everyone else in the Oval Office was staring at the TV monitors. “What in hell is going on?”
“We’re about to see the last casualty in this debacle, sir,” Jefferson said stonily, sadly.
They all watched as Frank Falcone wandered, seemingly dazed and disoriented, through the piles of battered and bloody bodies around him and his Cybernetic Infantry Device. He stopped, zipped his flight suit all the way up to his chin, then stood limply, his arms hanging straight down, his head bowed. After a few moments, he looked up, reached down, retrieved a blood-covered M-16 rifle from the ground, pulled the charging handle to make sure a round was in the chamber, checked that the safety was off, turned it around, inserted the muzzle in his mouth…and pulled the trigger.