“Yes, sir. Our scouts report some of the men were being beaten and physically restrained, and one woman was being pulled into the back of a truck with several Americans with her—no one else. It appeared as if she was resisting.”
“Sir, we have to do something!” the noncommissioned officer in charge, Master Sergeant Jorge Castillo, interjected hotly. “This is in retaliation for the accident near El Centro and the embassy bombing. Are we going to stand by and watch as our women are raped by these meados…!”
“Sir, we know which camp they took them to,” Salinas said. “It’s only three kilometers north of the border. We will outnumber them with an extra patrol unit. Request permission to…”
“Denied,” Azueta said. “I will report this incident to regimental headquarters and await instructions.” But as soon as he said those words, he knew he had to reconsider them: even the young lieutenant was itching to get into action. “What’s your plan, Lieutenant—or haven’t you thought of one yet?” Azueta challenged him.
“The master sergeant recommends flanking the camp with two patrol units,” Salinas replied. “We will come in from the east and southeast and sweep in, with one patrol unit attacking the camp and the other guarding the road to the west to cut off any response from the nearest National Guard patrol units.”
“That’s your plan, Lieutenant? What resistance do you expect? What weapons? What reserves do you plan to bring? What will you do if the California National Guard responds? Do you even have any idea who those people are and why they were being taken…?”
“Sir, we are wasting time,” Castillo said. “The scouts say they outnumber the Watchdogs right now. We have only observed fewer National Guard forces out there, not more. We may never get another opportunity to help those people. I respectfully recommend we proceed, sir.”
“‘Respectfully recommend,’ eh, Master Sergeant?” Azuerta mocked. “Your ‘recommendation,’ no matter how respectful, will not soothe my agony when I stand over your dead bodies, nor soothe my wife and children when I am thrown into prison for approving this insane idea.”
“Sir, they are only civilians—they have probably been drinking all night, they are tired, and they are too busy abusing our people to expect a counterattack,” Castillo said. “We should…”
“Hold your tongue, Master Sergeant, or I’ll put you in irons myself!” Azueta said angrily. “You are just as crazed on vengeance as those Americans.” But he looked at their excited, energized faces, thought for a moment, then nodded. “But we’re out here to protect Mexico and its people, and that includes those who want to work in the United States.” Castillo slapped a fist into his hand in glee. “Very well, Lieutenant. Get two more scout units moving toward that location to cover your withdrawal, and advise me when the two scouts are in position and ready to go in. If there is any observed change in opposition force deployment or numbers, terminate the mission and return to your patrol positions—don’t ask for reinforcements, because you won’t get them.” Salinas immediately picked up his portable radio to issue the orders.
It took less than fifteen minutes for Azueta to get the message that the team was in position—Salinas and Castillo must’ve set a land speed record for driving a Humvee cross-country. They took command of the strike team, with one of the patrol units on the border withdrawing to a defensive position to the southwest, ready to cut off any pursuit from a California National Guard patrol whose last known position was only two kilometers from the Watchdog Project’s camp.
That proved the National Guard’s duplicity in this horrible action, Major Azueta thought: there was no way they would not know what the Watchdogs had done. Azueta knew the National Guard was out there to watch the Watchdogs as well as look for migrants. That made it much easier for him to issue the order to proceed across the border. When the last patrol unit was in position, Azueta ordered Salinas to go.
“We go,” Salinas said to his men. “Now listen to me carefully. Our mission is to rescue as many of our people as we can. We are not here to engage the Watchdogs or the California National Guard except as necessary to accomplish our mission.” He touched Castillo’s sleeve. “Specifically, we are not here for revenge, Master Sergeant, is that clear?”
“Entendido, Teniente.”
“We go in, rescue the woman and as many men as we can, and get out, with a minimum of bloodshed,” Salinas went on. “Fire only if fired upon, understood? We have watched these people for days: most of them are old and frail, and they will have been outdoors all night and are probably sleepy and cold. We use that to our advantage. Be smart, be safe. Paseo rápido y duro, amigos. Mount up.”
On Master Sergeant Castillo’s suggestion, the two Humvees went in with headlights shuttered, at full speed, and with an American flag attached to their radio antenna. They angled in from the east, trying to avoid the last known location of the Watchdog’s lookouts and to put the rising sun at their backs to screen themselves, but it was almost dawn so they had no more time to be stealthy. Three hundred meters from the camp, they dropped off two soldiers, who would proceed in on foot to set up an overlook position and warn of any responders. At the last moment, Salinas ordered a third Humvee to drive north with only the driver on board to pick up as many captives as it could hold, and the fourth Humvee was standing by with soldiers ready to repel any pursuers.
Just thirty meters from the camp, they spotted the first lookout—he appeared to be an older man in cold-weather camouflaged hunting gear, lying on an aluminum and vinyl-webbed beach lounge chair, with a thermos of coffee beside him, a monocular night vision device hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and a walkie-talkie on a strap around the arm of the lounge chair. The man looked up, tipped his hat back to get a better look, then appeared to wave as the Humvee raced past. Salinas waved to the man, then ordered Castillo to radio his position to the dismounts. “One lookout, no weapon observed. Avoid him if you can.”
They encountered a group of ten or eleven migrants just a few meters farther, sitting and lying on the cold desert ground about ten meters outside the large eight-person tent that was the American Watchdog Project’s base camp. Salinas pulled up between the migrants and the tent. The men slowly shuffled to their feet as if they were drugged or injured, some helping others up. “Vamos, amigos,” Castillo said. He radioed for the third Humvee to come in, then quickly assessed the men. He picked two of the healthiest-looking ones. “There is one lookout down the road—secure him and make sure he doesn’t report in.”
“¿Quiénes son usted, señor?”
“Master Sergeant Castillo, Army of the United Mexican States,” Castillo replied. “We’re here to take you home.” The men stood around, looking at each other in confusion. Castillo motioned to his Humvee. “Put your injured inside—the rest will have to ride outside the vehicle. We have more vehicles on the way. Where’s the woman?” The migrant pointed at the tent, his finger shaking, and Castillo jabbed a finger at the tent.
Lieutenant Salinas led the way, his M-16 rifle at the ready. They took only a few steps before they heard screams coming from inside. Castillo bolted for the front of the tent before Salinas could tell him to wait. Castillo stooped down low, then using the muzzle of his M-16, he opened one of the door flaps. He saw four men standing around a camp table, one man on a stool in front of the table…and a woman lying on her back on the table, her dress pulled up around her neck, screaming in agony as the men watched. Two battery-powered lanterns brightly illuminated the scene. Most all of them wore camouflage gear, with a few sporting bright orange hunter’s vests. The man on the stool had close-cropped hair, while the others had longer hair and beards. Some were grimacing, but a few were smiling and joking with one another despite the poor woman’s screams…