Dale Brown - Edge of Battle

“Thank you, sir. I studied up on it as part of the planning process for Operation Rampart, and brushed up on it after learning about the attacks on the Border Patrol agents last night.”

“To me, you sound like that nutcase who makes those videotapes that air every now and then…what’s his name…?”

“Veracruz. Comandante Veracruz,” Jefferson said. “Named after the Battle of Veracruz, the largest and deadliest U.S. Army battle before the Civil War. It was also America’s first amphibious invasion—twelve thousand soldiers landed on the beach in Veracruz, Mexico, in less than one day. Major General Winfield Scott had the city outnumbered four to one but Scott still refused to negotiate terms of surrender. The Army blasted the city continuously for twelve days. It was a great victory for America but was considered a disgrace and humiliation to Mexico.”

“It almost sounds like you’re sympathetic to the Mexicans, Sergeant,” Kinsly added.

Jefferson turned his whole body toward Kinsly and gave him a look that made little hairs on the back of the Chief of Staff’s neck stand up; Kinsly tried to regain his composure but found his throat had turned completely dry in the blink of an eye. Jefferson’s expression was clear: you are my immediate supervisor, but if I don’t get the simplest sign of respect due me, I’ll rip your head off your pencil-thin neck and shit down your throat.

“Do not, ” Jefferson began in a voice that was more like a growl, “confuse analysis with sympathy, Mr. Kinsly. It’s essential to study the enemy personality, composition, terrain, logistics, and tactical situation in order to identify the enemy’s center of gravity and compose a plan of action. Basic combat strategy.” He took one step toward the Chief of Staff, impaling him with his eyes. “I’d be happy to meet in your office, one on one, any time, to discuss it further. Sir .”

The President found his own throat a little dry after watching Jefferson putting Kinsly in his place, and he took a sip of coffee before speaking. “Now it’s the ‘enemy’ we’re talking about, Sergeant Major?” the President asked.

“It is if you tell me it is, sir, yes,” Jefferson said. “As I said, I believe there’s a military solution to the illegal immigration situation, and I’m prepared to implement it whenever I’m given the order. However, I’m pointing out the inherent difficulties created by the historical, anthropological, and cultural situation. We could very well win every battle and lose the war.”

“Why?”

“This Veracruz guy is a known drug smuggler, sir, but he has enormous popularity all around the world for the Mexican cause. He represents a militant backlash to anti-immigration sentiment that’s growing in the United States, fueled by guys like Bob O’Rourke. Veracruz could start an uprising among the migrants in America.”

“An uprising? That’s ridiculous,” Kinsly said. “The Mexicans are here to work and earn money for themselves and their families, not revolt against America. Besides, who is this Veracruz guy? Is he a general? What army does he command?”

“His audience can turn into his army if we’re not careful,” Jefferson said. “Remember that there are an estimated ten million illegal immigrants in America today, at least a million more enter every year, and over a third of all the live births in the southwest U.S. are children of illegal immigrants. If even ten percent of them decide it’s time to listen to ‘Comandante Veracruz’ and fight, he’d have an army twice as large as Mexico’s itself. He shouldn’t be underestimated.”

CHAPTER 2

CAJON JUNCTION, CALIFORNIA

THE NEXT MORNING

Any business consultant would have told them what they already knew: it was the perfect place for an enterprise such as theirs. The area featured ready access to transportation outlets such as Interstate 15, the major freeway artery between Las Vegas and Los Angeles, which made transporting both raw materials and finished product quick, easy, and secure; it was on the edge of the Mojave Desert where land was cheap, but also at the edge of the San Bernardino National Forest so it didn’t seem as if they were actually in the desert; and they had ready access to over ten million potential customers, without having to directly compete against the hundreds of other manufacturers scattered around the Los Angeles megalopolis.

Of course, their real market was Los Angeles, but they chose to locate in San Bernardino County instead—along with going up against the competition, they would have to go up against the infinitely better-funded and-organized Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department rather than the much smaller San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department. One had to balance customer service, marketing, and location of facilities with the competition factor, and their competition was not only the other manufacturers, but law enforcement.

This was Ernesto Fuerza’s pride and joy—one of the largest and most successful methamphetamine labs in southern California. Mostly built on trucks and trailers for easy portability and concealment, the lab produced almost a hundred kilos a day of crystal meth, or “speed,” worth almost a hundred thousand dollars; mixed with cheap fillers and sold on the street, the drug could be worth ten to twenty times that amount.

The best part was that it was far less expensive for Fuerza to manufacture meth in the United States than many of his competitors because he received the raw materials from Mexico rather than from the United States, where controls on the sale of the compounds needed to make meth were far less stringent. The same smuggling networks that allowed Ernesto Fuerza to bring hundreds of illegal immigrants a month to the United States also allowed him to import tons of epinephrine, hydrochloric acid, caustic soda, and chlorine gas to his southern California mobile labs for very little cost and almost total security.

Like any successful business owner, it was important for Fuerza to personally oversee his operation, let his employees see the boss regularly on the job site, take a look at the books, inspect the facilities and product, question his staff, and hand out punishment and rewards, and that’s what Fuerza was doing that morning…when they received an unexpected visitor.

As always, the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Methamphetamine Interdiction Tactical Team swept in with black armored Humvees with lights and sirens on. Deputies on foot wearing black fatigues, ballistic helmets, and bulletproof vests led captured lookouts into the compound at gunpoint, and all of the lab workers were quickly rounded up, cuffed with nylon handcuffs, and secured in the middle of the compound. The deputies were especially rough on Fuerza himself, hog-tying, blindfolding, and gagging him and throwing him facedown in the dirt in front of his workers.

“Ernesto, you must be working your men too hard,” said Sergeant Ed Nuñez, commander of the Methamphetamine Interdiction Tactical Team. “My men found your security guys fast asleep.” He looked around at the trailers and trucks and shook his head. “Two tractor-trailers here instead of just one, Ernesto? You didn’t tell me you are using two labs now. You broke the rules, Ernesto, and it’s going to cost you. You’re under arrest. Get him out of here.” Fuerza was pulled up by his arms and dragged across the compound to Nuñez’s Humvee. Just before being thrown into the backseat, Nuñez landed a fierce right cross on Fuerza’s left jaw, causing the smuggler to spin around like a top and slam against the vehicle, with a noticeable spot of blood growing on the outside of the hood covering his head.

Once inside the vehicle, Nuñez removed his helmet, balaclava, and gloves and lit up a cigarette, leaving Fuerza in the backseat still bound and gagged. “I hope for your sake that one of those tractor-trailers is empty, Ernesto, because I’m going to have to confiscate one of them, and I’d hate for you to lose an entire mobile lab. That would be bad for both of our businesses.” He took a deep drag, then removed the hood and gag, leaving the rest of the bindings intact. “What the fuck, Ernesto? We agreed you could keep operating as long as you tossed me a few kilos of product and a few rival smugglers every now and then, and as long as you didn’t get too greedy and try to expand. What’s the matter with you?”