“There’s something strange about those migrants,” Ariadna remarked.
“What?”
“They look…I don’t know, pretty well organized, like they’re used to walking out in the middle of nowhere in the desert,” Ari said.
“The migrant farmworkers are already pretty tough hombres to do the kind of work they do,” Spinelli said. “A lot of the migrants have made this trip dozens of times, and you have to be tough to survive it.” He looked at Vega again, trying to guess what was wrong with her expression. “Don’t worry—after the shootings at Blythe, we’ll be on guard for any violent characters.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Our patrol will be there in twenty minutes,” Spinelli replied. “We’ll pick them up, drive them back here, and give them all a checkup. We have a group of volunteer nurses and paramedics and a volunteer doctor on call who’ll help us out. Then they’ll be processed. We’ll identify them the best we can and weed out the criminals and the violent ones. Any wanted suspects are processed by the Departments of State and Justice for extradition. The Mexicans will be deported across the border; the OTMs—other than Mexicans—will be deported after a hearing. If they have any outstanding warrants, either in the U.S. or with any other Interpol reporting agencies, they’ll be detained until they can be transferred to the proper authorities. We’re seeing more and more of them with lengthy criminal records.”
“The others will get deported?”
“Yep. They’ll be bused across the border from San Diego to a Mexican processing center in Tijuana or Mexicali.” He thought for a moment, then went on: “Alvarez, the guy with the shotgun, concerns me. Smugglers with guns are getting more and more common on the border, and we want to clamp down on that hard and fast. I think Alverez is wanted in Tamaulipas State on suspicion of killing a Mexican federale. I want him for questioning. Have your guy…robot…CID unit, whatever you call him, hold that man until our agents arrive.”
“We can’t,” Ariadna said. “We’re prohibited from making an arrest. We’re out here to observe and report, nothing more.”
“I can authorize him to pass along an order from me to stay where he is until my agents arrive,” Spinelli said. “I’ll be the agent in charge. You’ll just…”
“We can’t get involved, Agent Spinelli—that’s final,” Ariadna said resolutely. She touched the comm button: “CID One, you are authorized only to keep the subjects in sight and report their position and movement. You may not detain or interfere with them in any way. Is that clear? Acknowledge.”
“Received and understood, Ari,” U.S. Army Sergeant First Class Harry Dodd, piloting CID One, responded.
“That guy took a shot at your recon plane, Dr. Vega—you saw it, we all saw it,” Spinelli said. “That’s a federal violation for sure. Plus he’s wanted in Mexico on a murder charge. You can’t just let him go.”
“Task Force TALON is not the Border Patrol, Agent Spinelli—we’re not here to do your job for you,” Ariadna said. “We’re here simply on National Security Adviser Jefferson’s suggestion.”
“But…”
“As far as you’re concerned, Agent Spinelli, we’re nature lovers out here on a stroll to take pictures of the flora and fauna,” she interrupted. “CID One, continue your assigned patrol.”
“Roger.” It was only a few minutes later when Dodd radioed back: “I’m picking up a vehicle approaching—a small Ford van, no license plates…subject Alvarez is waving it down. Looks like a rendezvous.”
“You can’t let him get away, Dr. Vega,” Spinelli said. “Alvarez just walked across the border. That’s illegal. You’ve got to stop him.” But Ariadna said nothing.
“Ari? What should I do?”
“Continue your patrol, CID One,” Ariadna replied. “Observe and report.”
There was a slight pause; then: “O-kay, Ari. The first subject has made contact with the driver of the van…he’s now waving at the other subjects…they’re running toward the van. Looks like they’re all going to get in.”
“At least get up there and see who the driver is, Sergeant!” Spinelli exclaimed. Dodd trotted over to the van, but the driver and a man in the front passenger seat had their faces well hidden with hats and sunglasses. “The other guy has a gun!” Spinelli pointed out excitedly. “I saw a submachine gun in his lap! That’s another federal violation! You can’t let them get away!”
“Ari…?”
“Continue to observe and report, Sergeant,” Ariadna repeated stonily. Spinelli banged a hand on the console and muttered an expletive. Moments later they watched as the van sped away.
“Want me to follow it, Ari?” Dodd asked.
“Yes! Follow it!” Spinelli shouted. “We might be able to intercept him before he reaches the highway.”
“Negative. Resume your patrol, Harry.”
“What is with you, Vega?” Spinelli exploded as he watched the van speed away through the video datalink. “I thought you were here to help us! Instead, you just let a wanted criminal get away!”
“My orders are to send one CID unit and a Gullwing UAV out to this area, patrol for ten hours over varied terrain and operating conditions in both day and night, and report back to Major Richter and Sergeant Major Jefferson,” Ariadna said curtly. “I don’t much care what you thought.”
Spinelli was ready to continue arguing with her, but instead he looked at her and nodded his head knowingly. “Oh, I get it now. What is it, Vega—afraid ‘your people’ are going to get persecuted by the big bad federales?”
Vega whirled around and pushed Spinelli hard in his chest with two hands. “Kiss my ass, Spinelli!” she shouted.
“I seem to have hit a nerve here, eh, Vega?” Spinelli smirked. “I run into that all the time. Most of the Border Patrol’s recruits are Hispanic because it doesn’t cost as much to teach them Spanish and they blend in with the border area population better. But the downside is that sometimes they don’t want to catch the illegals as bad as others in the Border Patrol do. Some even have family members that are illegals, and they’re afraid they’re going to catch a relative or friend of a relative if they do their job well enough. They’re good agents, but they let their heritage get in the way of their duty. They don’t last very long in the service. After all, they’re just wetbacks in uniform.”
Ariadna’s eyes blazed, and others in the room watching this interchange thought she was going to rush at him again. Instead, she hit the comm button on the console: “Harry, bring it in,” she ordered. “The exercise is over.” The Border Patrol supervisor smirked again. “And wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you, Spinelli.”
“Sí, señorita,” Spinelli said. Ariadna glared at him but said nothing. It took only a few minutes for her to pack up her gear. “You come back when you’re ready to do some real border security work, Doctor. Until then, the ghosts of the four Border Patrol agents who were killed the other day will thank you and your precious Mexican heritage to stay the hell out of our way.”
MISSION VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
TWO DAYS LATER
The memorial service for the four slain Border Patrol agents was held at Qualcomm Stadium, just outside San Diego, where more than fifty thousand attendees witnessed one of the largest gatherings of law enforcement officers from around the world ever—over three thousand men and women in uniform, some from as far away as South Africa, Australia, and Japan, assembled on the field to pay respects to the fallen agents. The caskets were brought into the stadium by simple wooden one-horse wagons, emblematic of the Border Patrol’s frontier heritage, led by a company of one hundred bagpipers that filled the air with an awful yet stirring dirge.