Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (13 page)

ROB GUNN PUT down his
dusty binoculars and sighed.  Everything was dusty.  Dust or ash, one or the
other.   The wildfires were beginning to eat into the Coronado National
Forest.  The latest rumor had it that they were intentionally set and without
TV or radio, who was to say it wasn’t? 

He pushed
back the brim of his well-worn Stetson with a leather gloved hand and looked
over his shoulder.  A ways back and to his left lay his buddy Lance Bryton,
decked out in similar clothing.  Rancher’s clothes: dusty old jeans, well-used
work shirt, work gloves, boots, and hat.  Where Rob chose his old Stetson for
the cowboy look, Lance went with a battered John Deere cap, faded greens and
yellows almost lost with wear.

Both men
were just behind the crest of a ridge in the southern Arizona highlands, a few
miles west of Nogales, sweating already in the mid-morning heat.  To the
northeast of Nogales, a wide black and gray bruise on the horizon betrayed the
location of the forest fires.  

Situated
right on the border with Mexico, Nogales had a long history of immigration—and
immigration troubles.  The Coronado National Forest straddled either side of
the dusty little border town.  As a result, there was plenty of open range for
anyone wanting to enter the U.S. illegally.  Rob frowned.  All you had to do
was just walk on through.

That was,
until the last few years of the 1990s.  A group of patriotic men, some land
owners, some suburbanites—American all—banded together.  This group of men had
but one purpose, on which they were focused like a laser. They ignored the
ridicule in the media, they ignored the protests by the ACLU and they turned
their backs on fellow citizens who called them racists and war-mongers.  They
wanted to
assist
the bungling  government in stemming the tide of
illegal immigration.  Someone had to do something and their rallying cry
became,
If not now, then when?  If not us, then who? 

They were
called the Arizona Regulators.

The
Regluators were privately funded by donations from each member, and donations
from like-minded individuals in Santa Cruz County, Arizona.  There were a few
large donations made from conservatives across the country and many of the men
had hopes those numbers would grow.  Some lived as far away as Tucson but came
south when it was their shift to patrol the border.   Most of the core
Regulators lived on ranches in or around Nogales.  It was their land that was
being overrun and they had been the first to propose a pooling of resources for
the common good.

The
Regulators made national news from time to time with press coverage of their
unmanned aerial vehicle, a copy of the military’s UAV spy plane, built from
scrap parts and household items.  The radio controlled plane cost $5,000 compared
to the military’s multi-million dollar bird, had comparable flight performance
and a high tech digital camera and video system to boot.  They could send the
UAV up for hours and spot potential illegal aliens miles away.       Border
Patrol agents drooled with envy, yet often bristled when the Regulators came
calling, dragging in illegal aliens.  The Regulators had proven time and time
again that they could do a better job than the government for a fraction of the
cost.  Support among the civilian population grew by word of mouth.  They
didn’t advertise what they were doing.  They simply did it.  The locals loved
them for it when the crime rate began to drop as illegal immigrants sought
easier ways  into America.  Before long, the ranks of the Regulators began to
swell and donations poured in.   They were the hometown heroes.

Each man
was armed with his own weapons.  Some had state of the art, expensive
semi-automatic rifles.  Others had top of the line hunting rifles.  Some used
old cowboy weapons: single action revolvers and old lever action long guns.  In
five years of operation, they had only fired weapons three times and then only
to scare, never to injure.  They took pride in that accomplishment. 

In total,
they had assisted in the deportation of thousands of illegal aliens back across
the border into Mexico.  It was a drop in the bucket, yes, but each year, each
month, each week, that drop grew a little bigger as their men gained more
experience and their numbers grew.

Every time
Regulators went out on patrol, either in 4x4s, trucks or on horses, they
rounded up at least a few Mexicans seeking a better life illegally.  They were
captured and transported—at their own expense—to the Border Patrol, with never
a ‘thank you’ offered.  Despite the word from Washington to stop playing as
border patrol agents, the Regulators continued to do their self-assigned  job. 
If Washington could ignore the plight of Americans on the border, then the
Regulators would ignore Washington's demands.

The
community was ever grateful at the expenses saved—no housing needed for
transient immigrants, no programs for illegal immigrants to get food and water
or education and health care or driver’s licenses as they did in California. 
It was routine for the Regulators to find baked goods or monetary donations
offered as a humble ‘thank you’ from the local towns.  When the Regulators were
out on patrol, fellow Regulators, or even the townsfolk would band together to
look after families left behind for week long 'tours'.

Elsewhere
along the border in Santa Cruz County, illegal’s were still getting in, but
their numbers were no longer rising unchecked.  Other counties were considering
the same solution.  But it was a never-ending task.  And without help from
state and local governments, the Regulators faced an uphill battle with the
odds against them.  There were infinitely more Mexicans willing to risk the
dangerous passage than there were American Patriots willing to defend their own
land.

Rob Gunn
and Lance Bryton were two such Patriots, willing to sacrifice their time and
resources for the good of their county and country.  When the power went out,
Rob had called out the boys and went out on indefinite patrol.  It made sense;
no one had a job to go back to for the foreseeable future and it kept the men
busy.   Enough men stayed behind in town to watch over things and to lend a
hand to the local cops who were sure to need help soon.

As the days
passed and word got out over the only local radio station still operating that
race riots had started in the larger cities, the Regulators went on high
alert.  Suddenly the day-to-day task of rounding up Mexicans took on a new
importance.  There was a growing fear in the county that the illegals would get
bolder and bolder, the more they learned of the trouble America was facing. 
What better time to pack up the kids and slip across the border?  No one would
be looking—except the Regulators.

Rob pushed
a branch of sage brush out of his line of sight and peered down the dusty, rock
strewn hill towards the path leading to Mexico.  He and Lance were the center
two-man team of the day.  There were other units of Regulators, spread out east
and west of Rob and Lance along their stretch of the border.  The Regulators
had concealed positions dug into the hillsides and ravines for miles.  The
Mexicans never knew they were being watched all along the border of Santa Cruz
County.

Lance
checked his watch and pulled out his GMRS two way-radio.  “Three, this is One,
you read?”

After a
slight pause, a whispered voice came back over Rob’s earpiece.  “
Yeah, One,
this is Three…you got any your way?
"

Lance
looked slightly up the ridge to Rob, who held up four gloved fingers.  Rob
turned back to his binoculars and let Lance call in the report, listening in on
his own earpiece. 

“Yeah,
Three.  We have four, repeat four
tangos
,” replied Lance behind
him in a low voice.

“
Hang
on, One
…” replied Team Three’s radioman, John Sellson.  “
Getting a
message from Five—they have ten, repeat, ten
tangos
inbound.
”

Rob thought
for a second.  Team Five was Ed and George, the Franks brothers.  They were
about a mile to the east. 
Ten Mexicans coming in there, four towards us,
he mused.

Whoever was
in charge of the center team for the day was de facto field commander.  That
put Rob in charge.  Lance quickly checked down the line to see if any other
Teams had Mexicans trying to cross the border.  Everyone else reported in the
same—no Mexicans.  Lance got back on the radio after two static bursts to clear
the channel, “Three, get on the horn and pass the word to Six and Seven—tell
‘em to move and regroup at Team Five’s position…copy?”

“
Copy
that—I’ll get ‘em movin
,” replied John’s voice.

“Okay,
we’re going to rustle up our group and drive ‘em to Five, then we’ll take all
of them to Nogales.”

“
Copy
that, see you at Five, One.  Three out
.” 

Lance belly
crawled up the ridgeline next to Rob and grinned.  "How's it goin' up
here?"

“Good. 
Looks like our lot is heading towards Five on their own…guess we’ll follow,”
said Rob, eyes still glued to binoculars watching the bedraggled immigrants
trudge their way through the hot landscape.  The tiny figures had slowly turned
towards the east to run parallel with the imposing ridgeline that ran along the
border.

After an
hour or so of trailing the Mexicans, the Regulators figured out that the two
Mexican groups were actually one—they were meeting at a point just across the
Mexican border from Team Five.  When all the would-be immigrants had gathered
together, the Regulators could easily see they were friends of some sort,
perhaps family.  There was much hugging and talking and crying among the
immigrants.  Mostly young men, but a few women and two children in tow.

The
assembled Regulators took stock of the situation and figured the easiest thing
to do would be to set up an ambush and warn the Mexicans off, send ‘em packing
for Mexico.  After all, they weren’t likely to get a warm welcome from the
Border Patrol today, not after all the hell that had broken loose recently.

John was
adamant about taking the Mexicans to the Feds regardless of the situation. 
“It’s what we’ve always done—it’s the only right thing to do.  We don’t want
any trouble from the Feds right now, boys.  Look at what they’re facing—they’re
liable to be awful antsy.  We shouldn’t tempt ‘em to come after us.”

Ed Frank
grinned as he leaned against a boulder under an outcropping, enjoying the shady
respite from the sun.  “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Sellson.  We don't
want to kill 'em.  Just drive 'em off."  A few of the men chuckled.

Rob spoke
up then, taking off his Stetson to wipe his brow.  “Well John, if we take ‘em
in, they’ll probably be let loose.  You honestly think the Feds got time to
deal with fourteen Mexicans right now?  Hell, the border’s probably closed up
tight.  They might just suspect us of terrorism for bein’ armed!”

Most of the
men agreed with Rob.  “If you think we’re going to be able to rely on the Feds
from this point on, yer dreamin', John.  George, you know I’m right.”  The two
brothers nodded.  “If it’s as bad out there as them radio jocks say it is…well,
Uncle Sam is gonna have a lot more trouble to worry about than us scaring off a
few tangos."  More nervous chuckles.  Most of the men looked to their
weapons, absently brushing off dust or checking chambers.    Rob continued. 
"Now, I say we ambush ‘em, scare ‘em, let ‘em know they’re not welcome,
and tell ‘em to leave.”

The men
agreed.  John rose his voice and spoke over the general chatter.   “But what
happens if they’re
not
scared.  What happens if they cross the border
and keep coming?  We gonna hog tie ‘em and take ‘em to the Border Patrol then?”

“Hey!  We
got a truck headin’ our way!  Looks like it’s chock full!” came the frantic
voice of their lookout, posted higher up the ridgeline to get a better view of
the Mexican terrain.  The assembled Regulators scrambled up the back side of
the slope and reached the crest to see for their own eyes.  Sure enough, a
large, beat-up dusty red truck was racing down the dirt road that paralleled
the border, heading for the knot of Mexicans directly across from the
Regulators.

“Where in
the hell did
he
come from?” asked Lance to no one in particular.

“Detroit,
I’d say.  That’s an old Ford…” muttered Ed Frank.

"Smartass,"
mumbled Lance.

“I see
fresh bullet holes in the right front panel,” mumbled Rob, ignoring Ed’s jest. 
“I bet he just came from the border at Nogales.”

“How can
you tell they’re fresh?” asked Lance, laying prone on the ground next to Rob.

“There’s a
wounded one in the bed of that truck—“ called out the lookout from above.

“I see
‘im.  Look at the blood!  Somebody just shot at that fella,” confirmed John,
looking through his own binoculars.

“Shit. 
They
must
have come from the border.  Looks like it’s definitely locked
up.  Feds probably shot at ‘em to drive ‘em off,” remarked Rob.  He had the
feeling that this encounter was not going to go down well.