Earth Inc.

By Rob Erlick

Does it matter whether an organization is privately or publicly

controlled if it has absolute power?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Global Summit House
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781649454041

Book preview

Earth Inc.

Robert Erlick

Copyright © Robert Erlick.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-64945-400-3 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-64945-401-0 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-64945-404-1 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Book Ordering Information

Phone Number: 347-901-4929 or 347-901-4920

Email: [e-mail]

Global Summit House

www.globalsummithouse.com

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Introduction

Preface

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

1890: U. S. Congress passes the Sherman Antitrust Act, followed by the Clayton Antitrust Act (1914) — an effort to break up America’s huge monopolies, whose mergers were considered counterproductive to the promotion of free competition.

1934-1944: A group of international corporate board executives, calling themselves The Fraternity and unknown to the public, rises to power on the heels of Hitler’s ascent, in an attempt at world domination.

1950: The Association emerges from the remains of The Fraternity, renamed with the same goal.

1992: Twelve members of the European community signed the Maastricht Treaty, an attempt to expand their combined monetary and economic powers, resulting in broader joint policies, unified defenses, and looser border controls. The European Economic Community was renamed the European Community (EC), as a reference to these expanded powers.

2002: Euro banknotes replaced national currencies among European member nations. The Lisbon Treaty began expanding the EC by 2007. By the mid-2020s, the EC defined all of Europe.

2030: China, Korea, Japan, and the countries of Southeast Asia signed a joint treaty, which resulted in looser border controls and unrestricted trading, resulting in the East Asian Free Trade Area, one of the strongest economic forces in the world by 2033.

2036: The United States signed an economic treaty that would unify North America, most of Central America, and the South American Economic Association with the United States-Mexico- Canada Agreement (USMCA) , creating the largest trading bloc in the western hemisphere.

2046: The European global stock exchange, iX, absorbed the American NASDAQ, along with the two other remaining international exchanges to become the Global Stock Exchange.

2047: The United States, in a combined effort with the East Asian Free Trade Area, adopts the Code for International Business Conduct (CIBC), outlining the principles that would soon define an internationally accepted constitution, superseding all prior national laws.

2048: Earth, Inc., is created to consolidate the remaining corporations of the world, and the World Bank becomes the central exchange for the remaining three hard currencies.

2050: Democratic systems have become extinct.

Preface

December 31, 2049

An arid desert wind blew steadily from the south. Outside the city walls, there was nothing; nothing but uncertainty. A spectator might have thought this was a Hollywood set for a western with a futuristic spin. But this was no movie. This was life outside the Phoenix Corporation; desolate and wild, lawless and forgotten. This was the life of an outcast.

Years of fighting, which now seemed to have passed with the blink of an eye, had brought Anthony Burrows to this place. Here he sat, reflecting, trying to regurgitate painful memories in this dark, empty building, which had been pushed aside by the high-rise, modern construction that marked the Phoenix Corporation prosperity. Burrows felt lost, as if he was transported to a time that history wanted to forget. There would be no exhilarating final moment of glory to put an end to this terror, only a lengthy effort; an effort to make them aware of what had happened. That final moment would be here, on the perimeter of a city too different to resemble its former self. Here, he would begin the reconstruction of history.

The near silent whistle of a high-speed train could barely be heard above the air conditioner in this small abandoned office building. Burrows gazed warily through the boards, covering an otherwise open hole, framed, by shards of glass. He could see the starlit sky, while still scanning the reticle of his Earthnet 500 SuperComSys. The searching drones became louder, their search patterns beating a predictable path towards him as cameras and sensors swept the city methodically. His heartbeat became erratic. Breathing deeply, reached for a white tablet and quickly swallowed it, waiting for its calming effects to allow him to continue. They were close. The Corporate Forces would soon know where he was. He didn’t expect to leave this place.

It was three o’clock in the morning, the only time he could be online and avoid detection. His days had existed for this hour. This was his time to glance into the true past. There was much research ahead. He’d finally learned how to extract real information, real data. This would be the culmination of his efforts, an intense devotion to the mission and an effort to remember everything.

He looked up for a moment, fixed on a circular mirror in the corner of the room where he saw his reflection for the first time in years. There sat a vision he did not recognize; an emaciated, aged shadow of a man. He tried to look away but was unable. He had not rested in days, never having contemplated sleep, but always looking at what lay ahead. Burrows longed for the days of flying for the Army. He missed Casey, his closest friend and copilot. Just before everything went bad, he thought. That’s when everything was perfect.

Compared to this place, his childhood seemed perfect. During that time, cities continued to expand through the desert, farmlands, and mountains of America, expanding economies that stretched across the oceans. Despite the setbacks—such as the Asian Economic Crisis of the ’90s, terror attacks on September 11, 2001, the wars that followed, and the Great Recession of 2008, economic booms returned. The North Atlantic Treaty Organization and the United Nations assumed different, but larger unified roles as countries scrambled to gain and maintain their most-favored-nation status while the world’s technology writhed in the fetal stage of something no less than phenomenal. Opportunities flourished. But as Burrows dug deeper, the reality became undeniable.

Underneath the exuberance breathed a beast. Its movements were subtle, as it crawled beneath the canvas of prosperity, planning to emerge years later. People didn’t want to know about it. A steady sense of healing, an idea we were moving away from the violence and toward something better, smashed the wariness that might have seen it coming. So, the beast was able to stay undetected. After coming so close to success nearly fifty years before, this time, there would be no mistakes.

As Burrows scanned the reticle, searching and extracting files like a farmer examining his crop and tossing unacceptable specimens, he thought about how far he’d come since his time in the Army. There would be at least another lifetime of struggle ahead. In his twilight years, he knew he would not see the end of despair. But they had come too far to give up and end the rebellion. So, he continued his quest until his resources were finally exhausted. Then he would sit down and write and remind the world of what had been stolen.

Introduction

Warning!

If you have successfully opened this document, copy it to a transportable data file immediately and wipe your drive memory. This information is for your eyes only. If caught with this document, you will face prosecution and punishment under Title IV, paragraph B of the Corporate Earth Constitution.

If you are still reading this file, you are either in a secure area, or you are testifying before a board. Since I have no other choice but to send out this document, I will assume you are in a secure area. The fact that you’ve accessed my website is testament to the idea you may have that something has gone wrong. You are right. Something has gone wrong, terribly wrong. You’ve felt that your humanity has been lost, like someone else is in control. Everything you have been taught is a lie. Once you accept that, you will begin to take back control of your life.

My name is Anthony Burrows, and what follows is my story. A sequence of events, beginning in the year 2020, thrust me into the forefront of a conspiracy at the most powerful level. For the past five years, I have been compiling what is left of the world’s history. Attached are inserts, transcripts, and documentation showing how your bosses came to power, and what we did to try to stop it. Our only hope is to make people aware. I’m now considered a danger to the establishment. People think they are free. I don’t live in that world anymore. Unawareness was that freedom.

≫ Loading document . . .

****

Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men.

For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard,

the bitch that bore him is in heat again.

—Bertolt Brecht

****

The Nuremberg Trials, May 1946

So you were aware of the source of these funds since at least 1942? The prosecutor’s words needed no reply. The evidence he had presented to the jury had clearly demonstrated that the Nazi-controlled Bank for International Settlements (BIS) had been receiving known shipments of looted gold. Now, before the jury, the current BIS director sat on the stand, slowly being picked apart by the prosecution.

I was unaware of the scope, said Walther Funk.

But the Swiss National Bank, particularly Thomas McKittrick and Emil Puhl, understood the scope.

Objection! Prosecution is speculating! the defense attorney yelled. Sustained!

What was your relationship to Emil Puhl?

He was from the Reichsbank, sent to screen shipments of gold for the Swiss National Bank.

Could you tell the jury the purpose of this screening?

He was a liaison, a disinterested intermediary, who certified that the gold shipments did not originate from looting.

And what had this to do with the BIS?

His certification prevented suspicion that the Swiss National Bank was acting outside the boundaries of international law.

Did you receive the gold reserves of the Czech National Bank, as well as reserves from Belgium, during the time Germany had occupied these countries?

Yes, through the Swiss Bank. It was the only way to exchange gold for foreign currency.

These records show the very nature of the Reichsbank, the bank that gave its certifying authority for the origins of gold shipments to the Swiss National Bank.

The prosecutor approached the bench with a folder bursting with documents and photographs. The judge peeled open the folder and methodically picked through the evidence.

I present to you direct evidence of Nazi involvement to the most incriminating level. These photos depict large piles of jewelry, spectacles, watches, gold dentures, and other personal articles taken from prisoners, the prosecutor said forcefully, waiting for the judge to examine the photo. He continued. In the next photo, the jury will note the markings on the gold bars found in the Reichsbank. The judge examined the photograph and handed it to the guard to pass among the jurors. The gold bars have been stamped with the name of the city of origin. In this case—he pointed to the photograph being passed among the jurors—"you will note the word Auschwitz."

The prosecutor became arrogant. His confidence grew with the mounting evidence proving that the bank’s involvement with Nazi Gestapo was indisputable. He prepared his summary. The case against the BIS had been the final chapter to expose the largest neutral and allied corporations that financed and produced Hitler’s war.

Your Honor, we have established that the former president of the BIS, the American Thomas McKittrick, knowingly funneled looted gold into hidden accounts, hoping he would not be implicated, and that he did so at the instigation of Emil Puhl to maintain the flow of this looted gold. Mr. McKittrick knew of their origins, which were indicated by the stamps corresponding directly to the locations of German concentration camps. Furthermore, receipt of this gold was disguised as payments from the American Red Cross. From there, the gold was ‘screened’ by Puhl, a Reichsbank member and moved into the reserves of the BIS, which made subsequent arrangements with one of these BIS directors, Mr. Funk, to receive further shipments from Himmler himself. Your Honor, members of the jury, what we have shown before the court is evidence of conspiracy of the highest order. Taken into account the evidence mounted against not only the BIS but the rest of the financial network chain that called itself the Fraternity, we believe we have shown, beyond reasonable doubt, a conspiracy to financially aid the Nazi war movement in hopes of a victory in order to advance its own agenda.

—The Daily Liberator

Excerpts from the Nuremberg transcripts and

U.S. Department of Treasury

Associated Rebel Press release #01

December 15, 2029

1

JTF 20

U.S.-Mexican Border, March 2020

As he raced along the dirt road following the river, Agent Cameron Daly was careful not to break his focus on the embankment a hundred meters ahead, where the last spotter reported seeing a group of illegal immigrants. Wait! I’ve got something there on the side of the road, Agent Eduardo Ortega yelled. The Ford Expedition slowed down, and Agent Daly looked over to where Ortega had been pointing. A pair of torn sweatpants lay strewn under a mesquite bush. They’re around here all right, and they can’t be far. It’s hotter’n hell. We’ll get ’em.

Well, we’ll be closing on where they were spotted shortly. GPS has us less than fifty meters out.

Daly put the SUV back into third gear and continued racing down the road.

Border patrol, scout 1, over.

Scout 1, go.

Roger. Do you have contact? They should be heading west. There’ll be a hardball coming up on your right. If you turn there, you might find ’em. Out.

"I know that road. Damn runners are fuckin’ up now, just makin’ our job easier. Shit, they’re so lost; they’ve headed back home. Ed, grab our equipment and load it up. We should be on ’em in a sec."

As they came to the bend, Daly turned the wheel hard. The back wheels slid left then right before straightening out onto the now-paved road. It was one of the few improved roads that led directly across the border.

There they are! You see ’em?

Daly looked to the right and saw, about thirty meters away, five people dressed in rags, running away from the road. Gonna get rough here.

Get ’em! Yeehhaaww! Ortega screamed

Just as Daly was about to turn off the road, he saw a van coming the other way. It had camera supports on the roof and colorful logos on the side.

Awww shit! Fucking news! What the hell are they doing here?

Ortega dropped his head. Goddammit!

Well, we’ll just have to get the van out of here.

Roger that. Ortega put the rifle away, swapping it for handcuffs and chains.

Daly acknowledged the news van and turned off the road to pursue the suspected illegal immigrants. When he closed within a few meters, they saw there was nowhere to run and they stopped, raising their hands. Daly looked back at the news van parked on the side of the road. News people were getting out and setting up equipment. Shit! he thought. When will someone get some control over those people?

Both agents rounded up the immigrants and handcuffed them to the side of the car. There was no way they could have transported them all, so they waited for a border van.

I hate talking to these guys. They always sound so spaced out, Daly said, hesitating before keying his radio. Border 1, border patrol.

Go ahead.

Roger, we’ve got five for ya, kickin’ and screamin’.

What’s the deal, border patrol?

News crew. Need you guys to expedite. I’m sending grid coordinates.

The sun had been beating on the dry desert plain for almost half a day, with the temperature at 105° and rising. The news crew, sweating profusely from the afternoon sun, set up cameras as a woman was being made up. Their van was plastered with logos, from a large letter font and a logo identifying the Channel 4 News to smaller sponsor names, like the most prominent, Telco. Daly looked to the crew at the side of the road and holstered his weapon. Keep an eye on these guys. The van will be here in a few minutes. I’m going to see how quickly I can get rid of these people.

Good afternoon, ma’am. Somethin’ I can do for ya?

How are you doing today, sir? I’m Nancy, Nancy Goodman, Channel 4 Evening News? She offered, waiting for recognition.

Sorry, ma’am, I don’t watch a whole lot of TV. Maybe Eduardo’s seen ya. Name’s Daly, Cameron Daly.

Mr. Daly, we’re doing a story on immigration and drug trafficking problems here at the border. I want to give our viewers a perspective from the front. Could we get you to say a few words?

You couldn’t have come at a worse time, ma’am. Have you been following us? His eyes shot back anxiously toward Ortega.

I’m sorry, Mr. Daly. Look, if you would just give us a few minutes of your time, we’d be out of your way.

Look, lady, maybe you can come back some other time. Call our office. Our staff would be glad to talk.

Mr. Daly, please, it will only take five minutes, and we’ll be out of your way. Goodman tried to hide a look of contempt.

Daly concentrated on Ortega and the truck and reluctantly turned back to Goodman. OK, five minutes.

The cameraman made some adjustments then raised his index finger. Whenever you’re ready!

Goodman began. Good afternoon. This is Nancy Goodman reporting live from one of America’s most troubled border regions. Despite an enormous spending increase for the state’s new War on the Borders program, statistics still point to a steady rise in illegal immigration. She turned to Daly. We’re live at one of our nation’s most trafficked borders to get a look at the frontlines of this rugged and merciless climate. I’m here with Border Patrol Agent Cameron Daly, who is tasked with a job that would seem near impossible. Mr. Daly, tell us about a typical day here on the job.

Daly leaned into the camera. Well, we run two operations on the ground, with support from the air, which includes the National Guard and active-duty helicopter crews. Our days are long. As you can see—Daly motioned toward the spot where Ortega was detaining the immigrants—we are quite busy.

Do you feel as if you’re making an impact?

Who does this woman think she is, patronizing me? he thought,. Well, yes, ma’am, I do. If we weren’t here hunt—er—patrolling for illegals, there’d be no control. You’d have everything from whole families dead of dehydration to an increase in drug trafficking.

Mr. Daly, there are literally hundreds of miles of border that your unit is responsible for keeping secure. Do you feel you’re being properly equipped for this task, getting the support you need?

We now have the National Guard and active army units supplying us with air coverage and other support that allows us to concentrate our ground patrols in the areas needed most. Vehicles and extra manpower were slow in coming initially, but we’re doing all right.

Has there been a significant increase in the numbers of immigrants captured?

Yes, ma’am, there has. Here is a small example of what we are doing out here all day long.

The camera turned to Ortega and the prisoners by the truck. The Mexican border was in clear view behind them. In fact, they were so close the camera picked up an unidentifiable image on the Mexican side. Mr. Daly, we can see— Her eyes caught a sharp glimmer of light. She could make out a structure in the distance, reflecting strongly off the afternoon sun. That . . . you have . . . She was fixated on the sheer size of the object and could no longer concentrate on the interview. What’s that? On the other side of the river. There.

The cameras were still rolling. The cameraman zoomed in past the border at the same time Daly turned to see what she had pointed out. On the crest of the horizon spanned a broken image of a line of construction projects. The waves of heat coming off the desert obscured the view, but the camera clearly captured the image of massive construction. Daly took out his binoculars. I don’t know, ma’am. That’s in Mexico. Looks like they’re building something big.

The cameraman handed her a set of binoculars. It sure does, she said. Do you have the camera on that? It doesn’t seem to end.

≪INSERT≫

Central America, 2010

Klaus Named CEO over TCA

Extensive Construction marks new vision for the future.

Frederick Klaus was appointed to the position of CEO over Telecommunications of Central America (TCA) today as revealed in a premature announcement from his father and former CEO, Gerhard A. Klaus. Klaus Sr. made this startling announcement years before the planned transition. He was unavailable for comment due to his abrupt departure, which, our sources were told, was to avoid publicity and begin an extravagant retirement in the Far East. This announcement came only a few days after Frederick Klaus returned from the Second Annual Euro-American Conference on Telecommunications Management.

TCA has been on the cutting edge across the globe in the telecommunications industry. Although its operations still largely remain a mystery to outsiders, including the press, experts believe there is extensive research in database expansion and information tracking, part of a Future of Management-Employee Relations plan that will revolutionize the industry. While Klaus declined to comment, a TCA spokesman revealed there were improvements in the field of information technology and employee-retention solutions. Industry experts say, TCA is undertaking a tenacious effort to gain significant market share. Its recent success is the result of an aggressive acquisition and merger strategy that conglomerated six other Central American communications companies.

Operating out of Mexico City, the company had positioned itself for future joint endeavors with U.S. companies.

In related news, recent and unprecedented surges in the construction industry across the region is believed to be a peripheral effect of industry restructuring and conglomeration of the telecommunications industry spearheaded by Klaus’s TCA.

North American Free Press

May 15, 2012

2

U.S.-Mexican Border, September 2020

Migra! La migra, allá en la calle! Corre! Vamanos para los arbustos!

What the hell did he say?

Immigration! Run for the bushes! Hide!

The three men ducked away from the opening by the main road and headed for a large growth of arroyos on the side of a hill.

Mierda! Donde estamos? Estados Unidos?

United States? the American yelled. Shit! We went the wrong way. How the—

At that instant two army scout helicopters buzzed over no more than twenty feet off the ground. A white SUV swerved off the road and raced toward the bushes, trapping the immigrants. That capture had been our first since being integrated into the joint task force (JTF) with the California National Guard. The men identified themselves only as Mexican nationals attempting to cross the border. When their IDs came back positive as maquiladores, they were sure to never see Mexico again. But I’m getting ahead of myself. We started this mission believing we were after illegal immigrants.

***

Focused on the instruments before him, a young lieutenant gripped the engine throttle and readied his index finger on the start button to ignite the power turbine engine, above and to the rear of his head. He was a competent pilot for someone fresh out of flight school, but he lacked the experience that comes with constant flying and was eager to get it behind him as soon as possible. I read the checklist from the other seat as the driven LT anticipated every step. The main rotor rocked in the wind as it slowly wound up, quickly picking up speed as each blade cut faster through the air. The blades disappeared into a disc-shaped blur. The lieutenant double-checked the instruments and brought the throttle to full operating rpms. I turned on the radios and completed the takeoff checks. Tuning in our internal FM frequency, I keyed the mike. Chalk One, radio check in ten seconds. The last army scout helicopter in our flight hovered into position, ready for departure.

You have the controls, Chief. he said, referring to my chief warrant officer II rank. I took the controls, and he pulled out up tactical map on the flight computer, checking the route he’d planned the night before. Although by this time, everything in an army helicopter cockpit had gone electronic (instruments, flight planning, navigation, alerts), the lieutenant was a strong believer in the fundamentals. This was extremely unusual for a lieutenant even in 2020!. Either way, he carried a paper tactical map book, by which he insisted upon navigating. He may have been slow with some of the operational aspects of the helicopter, but he could navigate. The L-T always insisted he’d be on the map, directing our route and working all the reconnaissance and scouting tasks. Of course, I never gave him any argument. I loved to fly. Guard Operations, this is 20132, flight of five. Departing at this time. Please activate flight plan.

Army 132, flight plan open. I motioned to the lieutenant. Switch me up, Victor, sir.

With little movement he stretched out an arm and obediently switched the radio. Slouched in the left seat, his tall frame seemed to form itself around the cockpit, taking advantage of whatever space he had. There he’d sit, planning some new route that would further test his skills.

McLarty Tower, army copter 20132, a flight of five, Alpha ramp. Hover taxi for runway 1-9, straight out departure. Corridor 1.

Roger, army 132, flight of five. You have one aircraft on final. Proceed to taxiway 4 and hold short runway 1-9.

Five helicopters simultaneously lifted off the tarmac and hovered toward the taxiway. I adjusted the Flight Management System (onboard flight navigation planning computer, FMS), taking advantage of the idle time and as usual, the lieutenant had something to say about it. "That thing goes tango uniform and what do you have?"

"What, the GPS? …I got you, babe, I sang. He smirked. I continued, intent on selling him some of the twenty-first-century realities. Look, L-T, this helicopter is on the chopping block to be phased out within the next year or two. If you want a future in twenty-first-century aviation, you’ll need to know this stuff . . . and more. These relics are about to be replaced by a completely integrated digitized helicopter that will not only have a newer, stronger engine but a navigation and optics package for improved operations in all modes of flight. The map’s a great tool to use, but you can’t neglect the gee-wiz crap either."

He marked the map with his pencil, folded it, and placed it under his leg. I’ve seen those birds. Completely digitized . . . right down to the engine. I’d hate to be around when that shit fails.

My attention drifted toward the airplane gliding steadily to land on runway 1-8 south. It was a twin-engine fixed-wing, a King Air framed by a clear deep blue sky. The wings waffled a bit from side to side as the nose flared slightly to let the main gear brush the runway, and the nose wheel settled back to earth. The plane rolled by as it tried to bleed off speed and turn onto the taxiway. Its white fuselage read only TELCO in red letters, with a logo of the same color beneath. My eyes fixed past the runway, and looking south, I went over our mission.

Our unit was operating out of a National Guard base, located on a fairly busy municipal airport, McLarty. We were only a few miles north of the border, near a small border town. But it got busy there. Businesses south of the border used it to stage their marketing operations for Area 1 customers, with railroads and trucks delivering the goods, which at one point seemed to be lumber, concrete, and stone. But that ended shortly after we arrived. Our controlling agency clearly briefed our mission as a concerted effort to enforce the president’s War on the Border program to cut trafficking of drugs and illegal immigration, which was rumored to have links to terrorist cells in the United States.

Recently, the news reported on the four largest corporations, known as the Big Four, that operated out of Area 1 Central, what was then Central America. The papers were plastered for the last three weeks with news about mergers, economic stimulation, and lower unemployment. According to inside sources, the Big Four was heavy on corporate security, which was rumored to have something to do with the increased attention to illegal border crossings, all, of course, in the name of antiterrorism. The media had all sorts of ideas why we were on this mission. At the beginning of the year, they came in droves, loaded with cameras. But by the time I arrived, they seemed to have lost interest.

We staged our missions day and night, helping border patrols on the ground do their reconnaissance work, working with other army and air force units. Thus, we were a joint task force or JTF—JTF 020 to be exact.

***

132, you are cleared the active for departure, runway 1-8.

We climbed through a thousand feet, heading southwest, over a small ridgeline as the flight began its daily routine. Another King Air was headed in the opposite direction, another Telco. Mountains to the east ran north to south for about fifty miles. Southwest on the horizon glimmered the faint testament of civilization south of the border in this otherwise barren desert. By early afternoon, the bright sun reflected spitefully off our windshield. A mountain range wavered in the distance, and before it lay the arroyos, small yucca trees, and mesquite bushes, which pepper the landscape of the southwest. Down there on the hot desert floor, they offer the only protection from the sweltering sun, and in the case of the border crossers, they are the only hiding place available during a chase. The border that defined the two countries split a large, dried-up lake bed to the south and was our area of operations. We launched on missions daily, found our respective sectors, and began work, keeping constant communications with the ground units, known as Border.

OK. This is our breakaway point.

Happy hunting, guys!

Border 1, Scout 1, radio check, I transmitted, looking to see if I could spot their van.

Scout 1, this is Border 1. Have you Lima Charlie. How me? They were nowhere in sight. Have you the same. L-T Casey studied the land and marked his map.

The only signs of human presence in this barren stretch of desert were the few unimproved roads, which fanned out in various directions, and one highway to the west, which ran north to south past the border. The highway followed a river north a few miles before turning to McLarty. We flew toward the river.

Scout 1 is on station, over.

Scout 1, Border 1, report any contacts. Out. The voice on the other end was always so cold and unattached.

On the river, we flew low. I slowed the aircraft to help Casey search the terrain, sometimes with binoculars, sometimes without. The object was to spot a contact, illegal border crossing, and report it to our respective border ground unit (in our case, Border 1). We mainly watched for bends in the river and areas that could provide concealment. Then there was the border fence, which ran along the river. If there were breaks or holes in that, you could be sure we would have more work to do. It was not as if we didn’t have enough as it was. We often wondered how the border patrol ever managed in the past, with so many people trying to cross at all hours of the day and night. It seemed a natural enough problem: a land border connecting two of the most economically disparate countries that are separated only by a fence and a river. The high traffic problem seemed inevitable. Border patrol had been operating before us with the Ford Expedition and their own helicopters. But by the time we arrived, it was a War on the Border and we were using army helicopters, and border patrol had an additional element: the vans. The Expedition drivers were a different breed of character.

A Border Expedition vehicle approached the riverbank, following a dirt road that eventually paralleled the eastern riverbank. I closed in. Casey, scanning the area, diverted his attention to the driver and his passenger. We’d come down almost low enough to land the helicopter on his roof. Those guys are packin’! Casey said.

What do you see?

It looks like a load of rifles strapped to a custom gun rack behind the driver. Shotgun vertically mounted on the passenger side. Casey put down the binoculars to focus on where we were. The passenger extended his arm out the window, waving excitedly. They need all that firepower for runners?

Terrorist threat, I guess. We continued away from the vehicle.

Looking back, one could only see a trail of dust led by the white and green SUV. Not another word was said. I’d worked with border patrol units before, and that amount of firepower was against the protocol. It made me wonder how these guys actually responded to contacts.

****

The early winter brought in unseasonable levels of rainfall for the time of year. The rainwater filled various capillaries on the desert floor, weaving toward the river, raising the waterline for almost three months. Those heavy rains swelled the river early. Its wide banks were being digested by a faster flow, which swept vigorously through numerous bends. The cumulonimbus clouds arrived about a week ago and drained two days’ worth of heavy precipitation. That’s why the water is more treacherous than what would be considered safe for crossing. Casey finished explaining. An accurate reconnaissance begins with a careful study of the terrain.

Where are you from, L-T? How come you’re such an expert on terrain and recon? Prior service?

Not me. I joined straight out of college. I used to hunt a lot with my dad. I grew up near the mountains out in the country. Spent a lot of time with the old man, learning to track.

Oh yeah? Your dad’s an avid hunter, eh?

Casey paused. Was. He passed away some time ago.

I’m sorry. That must have been hard on you. Sounds like you were close.

"We were close. I loved hunting with him. He taught me everything I know. He was the man," Casey inflected, intently letting his passion become apparent.

You must miss him.

silence

Think anyone would try to cross this river?

Have to be desperate, Casey answered. Some of these bends look pretty hairy, but there are areas where it gets calm. They’ll follow the banks, hiding in the bushes, until they find these areas and cross. Might be hard to spot that way. That’s why you really have to focus on the banks until we get to where it’s calm.

But it was Border 1 that had my attention, not the terrain. Their van acted hastily, leaving a trail of dust, as it raced off almost out of sight.

Border 1, Scout 1, we’re about five miles upriver from the starting point. Negative contact. You need any assistance? Your location? There was a ten-second delay. I was about to repeat my transmission when a monotonic robotic voice came back. This is Border 1. Understand, negative contact, and negative air assistance required.

Roger, Border 1.

Casey heard my radio call and immediately began looking for the van with his binoculars. I got him. Two o’clock, about two miles, on the east bank, driving down a dirt road.

OK, tally, I said, getting the van back in sight. I followed discreetly.

Scout 1, Scout 2 heading back for refuel at this time! The transmission startled us, shattering the silence. Roger, Scout 2. We’ll be departing station shortly for fuel.

Another white van kicked up a large cloud of dust near a cluster of bushes on the east bank and sped away quickly toward the improved road to McLarty. But rather than going north, it went south. I was determined.

Border 1, Scout 1, over.

Go.

Border 1, did you have contact?

Negative, Scout 1. We got word of some activity south and sent a vehicle.

I looked over to Casey, who was watching the van speed out of sight in the distance. Roger, Border 1. Is there . . . uhhh . . . anything we can do?

Negative, Scout 1. We’ll contact Scout 2 and have him check things out.

Scout 2 went back for fuel.

He didn’t know that? They’re on the same frequency, I said to Casey, puzzled.

We have a vehicle there now. Contact is no longer a factor. How much time do you have on station?

We’re about done here, I guess. Heading back for fuel. Out.

These guys are all fucked up!

Contact is no longer a factor.

****

Delta Tower, Scout 1, five miles west. Inbound for fuel.

The sun caught a metallic object in the distance and reflected sharply, giving away the old airstrip. Still surrounded by a few farms, the airstrip’s only present company was a lone refuel truck and a temporary field tower to direct air traffic from the JTF. The airstrip had been used by the local farming community in the past but had since become abandoned. We used it to refuel our aircrafts. Our missions required extensive time in the area of operations, or what we called the AO, and often went into the night. The fuel truck was in position by the time we were down, and we were refueled in an equally timely manner.

On climb-out, I looked south, impressed by the great visibility, which enabled me to see the border. The border. There had been