by Joe Nobody
Again he paused, noticing several heads nodding in agreement. “Today is a great day. Today an opportunity has presented itself… an opportunity to throw off the smothering veil of American imperialism and repression. Today we have a chance to change the course of our people’s lives. Today we have the chance to come out of the shadows and correct the stigma of evil that corrupt men hang over our heads. If we are successful, we’ll no longer be lurking criminals trying to eke out a living under the repressive boots of men who are truly holding down our people. Today we can become true heroes and set our family and friends free.”
Tio lowered the megaphone, giving his words time to sink in and judge the reaction of the men surrounding him. Most appeared simply curious, while a few others showed surprise.
“We are going to invade the United States of America,” he declared, a broad smile filling his face as murmurs of disbelief rolled across the gathering. “Now before you think your uncle has gone completely loco, let me explain. Just on the other side of the border, in the town of Laredo, a new technology is within our grasp. A device has been created that will change our world forever… a device that I intend to control with my own hand. We must take and hold only that one small slice of U.S. territory for a few hours and capture this invention. Once it is in my possession, the Americans will have no choice but to surrender.”
Like a jolt of electricity, shock circulated through the gathered men. Despite all of them being hardened veterans of extreme violence and urban combat, they believed that taking on the United States was suicide. Tio had truly gone mad.
But the cartel boss had expected just such a reaction. With a simple nod of his head, Tio was joined on the platform by a Mexican Army colonel. The man’s uniform bore a significant number of ribbons and awards, a clear indication of authority and experience.
After Tio handed over the bullhorn, it was the officer’s turn to address the small army. “My name is Colonel Zeta. Many of you know me to be an honorable man. I say to you with 100% confidence that Tio is neither lying, nor crazy,” he began, getting right to the point. “I am aware of this device of which he speaks, and I agree with his analysis of the situation. If we can fight hard and hold Laredo until this super-weapon is in our possession, then the battle will be won. We can conquer the world’s most powerful military by just that one single action – a victory that will forever change our world. It is within our grasp.”
For many in the crowd, the army officer’s words carried significant weight. The colonel was known as a professional soldier and respected by men from both groups. His further explanation of the situation sealed the deal.
“The opportunity that lies before us supersedes each of our own meager lives. Regardless of which side of the law you live, there is now a chance to make a difference for Mexico and her people. We can invoke a transformation… improve the world for everyone who strives for a better life. We only have to suppress our fear and doubt and execute to the best of our abilities. The rewards will far exceed anything any of you has ever imagined.”
Then it was Tio’s turn to address the crowd. “We are going to invade the United States with over 2,000 comrades. When I leave this place, I’m going to another location where a similar number of men are gathered. And then another… and then another. We will overwhelm the American authorities, capture this device, and then withdraw before they can mobilize any military response. By then, it will be too late. I only ask that you fight well… that revenge fills your hearts and minds – vendetta for your brothers and sisters who have suffered under the yoke of American dominance.”
A handful of the listeners was truly inspired and shouted their enthusiasm. In a few moments, the reaction spread throughout as Tio exited the building surrounded by his security force.
Without pause or delay, another officer climbed on the desk and began issuing instructions for the distribution of ammunition, weapons, and supplies.
There were four motor vehicle bridges crossing the Rio Grande River between Mexico and Laredo, Texas. A fifth carried rail traffic.
Since the signing of the NAFTA Treaty, cross-border traffic had become so congested that a sixth span was in the works. Daily, hundreds and thousands of trucks plied the bridges, carrying goods, sub-assemblies, and components back and forth between the heavily industrialized areas lining both sides of the great river.
To the massive presence of the U.S. Border Patrol, a gridlock of semi-trucks crossing into Texas was a common sight. So voluminous was the traffic, that the largest bridge was restricted to commercial vehicles only. Eight lanes of trucks, trailers, tankers, and delivery vans carried their cargo back and forth between the two North American neighbors.
It was due to this congestion that the 40 over-the-road semis hauling Tio’s private army approached the crossings unnoticed. When the lead units of the cartel’s convoy were next in line at the border control station, all of that suddenly changed.
The back doors of the first five trucks sprang open, armed men in balaclava masks pouring out of the trailers. All of the disembarking hoard wore load vests bulging with pouches, spare magazines, and hand grenades. Battle rifles with folding stocks, holographic optics, and stout slings swept in all directions.
Two-man teams began boiling out of the trailers, deploying heavier weapons equipped with bi-pods and belt-fed strings of ammunition that dangled from their breeches. They formed up quickly and then began hustling toward the small booths that signaled the U.S. border.
Each of the small glass and plywood enclosures was manned by a single, lightly armed agent. The outcome was inevitable.
Automatic weapons’ fire shattered the otherwise uneventful afternoon, short bursts by the cartel’s lead units overwhelming the stunned border agents in a matter of moments. More armed men appeared at the bridge, their mission to direct traffic and clear the way for the rest of the cartel’s invasion force.
Frantic 911 calls soon flooded the Laredo Police Department’s system, the initial reports claiming active shooters were robbing trucks on the bridges.
Laredo was the 10th largest city in Texas with a population numbering over 200,000 residents. The border city boasted a well-trained and equipped city police department as well as county, state, and federal lawmen. Within minutes, over 100 patrol vehicles and two SWAT units were responding to the disturbance at the span over the Rio Grande. Before they arrived, the situation got worse – a lot worse.
Pleas for help began coming in from all of the bridges. Reports flooded the emergency lines, frantic voices describing dozens of armed men firing automatic weapons and storming the Border Patrol facilities. Other calls claimed the US Customs facilities were under attack. The responding patrolmen were confused, the dispatchers unsure of exactly where to send them. The bedlam didn’t last long. Less than three minutes into the assault, the 911 system was overwhelmed and ceased to function.
The first officers to arrive were met with a hailstorm of bullets from both AK47 and G-3 battle rifles. Completely surprised, most fell before they could even exit their shredded cruisers. The handful that managed to broadcast a warning to their fellow officers merely added to the confusion.
The few patrolmen who did achieve defensive positions were quickly overwhelmed. Department-issued sidearms, shotguns, and the occasional M4 patrol rifle were no match for RPG rockets and belt-fed weapons.
Tio’s invasion force wasn’t entirely dismounted infantry. A second wave of invaders was soon pouring across the border, a hastily gathered assortment of pickup trucks and busses allowing the cartel’s forces to quickly press its advantage and expand the riverside beachhead.
There was a list of primary objectives assigned to the various teams from Mexico. The city police station, courthouse, television, and radio stations were high on the Uncle’s military inspired agenda of targets.
Three lead elements of the cartel’s army headed directly for the Laredo International Airport, their mission to deny any counter-attacking force the long concrete ru
nways. Trucks full of armed men burst through the chain link fence surrounding the facility and sped across the tarmacs. As hundreds of horrified passengers watched, masked men brandishing military weapons commandeered every available fuel truck, forcing the stunned airport employees to drive their mobile bombs onto the runways.
Air traffic controllers, seeing their landing strips blocked by thousands of gallons of jet fuel, began diverting all incoming flights. The tower supervisor, thinking the facility was under attack from terrorists, managed to get off a brief warning before heavy combat boots kicked in the door, and the main control room filled with shouting, masked invaders. Laredo International Airport was closed.
A few of Laredo’s finest managed to barricade themselves inside the police headquarters, keeping the attackers at bay with concentrated small arms fire from the cover of the brick and mortar building. For a brief time, their pocket of resistance slowed the wave of conquest spreading rapidly throughout the south Texas berg.
Colonel Zeta, surrounded by a company of his most trusted troopers, was monitoring radio traffic a short distance away. “We have twenty to thirty enemy fighters holding out at objective number three,” sounded the report. “I have four men down.”
Zeta didn’t recognize the voice, but knew that the target had been assigned to one of the cartel’s units. The colonel quickly rallied his troops and began running toward what he knew was the county’s main law enforcement complex.
He arrived to find two clusters of Tio’s men occupying the parking lot. Numerous police vehicles dotted the area, most showing battle damage. Smoke poured from several windows, piles of glass and shredded metal evidence of the ongoing firefight.
The colonel’s arrival drew a hail of bullets from the barricaded defenders, the incoming fire forcing Zeta’s reinforcements to scramble for refuge. “Give me covering fire!” he ordered.
The Mexican officer watched as two of his men rose and began spraying the complex with controlled bursts of automatic fire. Small puffs of mortar and stone erupted from the building’s façade as his men began walking suppressive lead into the structure. A moment later, another, deep baritone voice joined the chorus as the squad’s machine gun came on-line, the heavy weapon slamming rivers of high velocity death into the foe.
With the enemy hopefully ducking for cover, the colonel sprang forward, zigzagging across the lot as random, hastily aimed shots cracked through the air past his head.
He found Tio’s lieutenant huddled behind a small rise, the harried looking leader surrounded by several of his team.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Zeta shouted. “Use your grenades and blow the hell out of this place. We don’t have time for a protracted fight.”
The cartel man seemed momentarily confused by the order. “We can’t use the RPGs… I think my brother is in that jail. He was arrested three days ago, and I think they’re holding him…”
Zeta slapped the man across the face. “I don’t give a fuck if your mother is inside!” He screamed. “We are losing men and momentum. Now take this objective, or I’ll relieve you of command.”
Stunned by the response, the team leader hesitated, shaking his head. “I won’t… I can’t,” the man stammered.
Zeta moved like a striking snake, pulling his pistol and shooting the man in the face. “You’re relieved,” he growled and then turned to the shocked onlookers. “Who’s second in command here?”
One of the nearby assaulters raised his hand, “I am, sir.”
“I want you to rally anyone on your team with an RPG on this spot. Go! Do it now!”
Zeta watched as the cartel thug hustled off. After satisfying himself that his orders were being executed, he pulled his radio and thumbed the button. “I want our grenadiers to form on me.”
“Yes, Colonel,” came the instant response.
A few moments later, the colonel was surrounded by four men equipped with rocket launchers, each accompanied by a teammate carrying reloads of the heavy missiles.
“On my command, I want a simultaneous barrage,” Zeta shouted to the new arrivals. “Two there and two there,” he ordered, pointing at different sections of the building.
“Fire!”
Four trails of white smoke followed the sizzling, rocket-powered warheads into the police headquarters, balls of red and fire flame erupting as the projectiles impacted. Clouds of slicing, screaming shrapnel tore through the ranks of the defenders inside, lacerating flesh and crushing bone.
“Reload! Reload!” Zeta commanded.
Twenty seconds later, a second barrage of missiles impacted the facility, their detonations decimating the numbers of those still fighting.
Before the rumble of the explosions had rolled across the grounds, Zeta was up and waving his men forward. “Go! Go! GO!” he screamed, frantically motioning for his men to enter what remained of the building.
When the distant explosions first rumbled through his cell, Mike Boyce thought it was an odd time of day for a baseball game.
The stadium hosting Laredo’s minor league team would shoot off fireworks to celebrate the occasional home run, but most games were at night. It soon became clear to all of the prisoners that the ever-increasing drone of thunder wasn’t due to any baseball game.
There wasn’t any question about the gunfire.
When the shootout at the jail first erupted, the prisoners were as bewildered as the rest of the city. Rows of incarcerated men began nervously pacing back and forth in their cells, each explosion and volley of gunfire agitating the population to a higher level of panic.
Mike and his cellmates were as frightened as anyone. Detained for a DUI, the oldest of the three inmates remained at the cell door, his eyes nervously darting up and down the corridor beyond. As the muffled sounds of violence escalated, shouts and cries sounded throughout the floor, scared men trying to make sense of what had clearly become a major battle.
The walls literally shook when the Mexican RPGs had slammed the building. That event, closely followed by the cracking sound of the random bullet zipping through the area, sent most of the prisoners to the floor. Grown, toughened criminals could be heard crying and whimpering.
Without warning, the door to Mike’s cell flew open. The farmer gasped when he looked up to see a bloody, disheveled deputy standing in the opening.
Streams of crimson flowed down the jailer’s face, his uniform torn and caked with dirt and dried blood. Holding a 12-guage shotgun across his chest, Deputy Turner motioned for the occupants to get out. “You three, get the fuck out of here… right now… come on… I don’t have much time.”
Despite weeks of yearning for his freedom, Mike was confused by the opportunity. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, unsure by all the commotion.
“The jail’s under attack. We don’t know by who, but we can’t hold out much longer. Now get the fuck out of here.”
A loud string of gunfire accented the jailer’s statement, the deputy bringing the shotgun to his shoulder and pointing it toward the main offices. “Get the hell out of here!” he repeated.
The inmates didn’t have to be told again, the need for their departure accented by another burst sounding even closer than the last.
As Mike went to squeeze past Deputy Turner, the lawman reached out and put a hand in his chest. “I want you to know I’m letting you go because I never felt right about your being in here to begin with. I knew your daddy, and he was a good man. Now you lay low until this all blows over and then walk home. Go take care of your wife and those girls. Now get going!”
Mike managed a smile and nod before being startled by another round of shots. The fighting was clearly getting close. Glancing over his shoulder as he ran toward the emergency exit, he saw Turner take a knee and raise his weapon.
Bullets came screaming down the corridor, pinging ricochets sparking off the steel door and bars. Mike ran as if he were being chased by hell’s hounds, the roar of combat ringing through his head. More lead struck the wall, geysers of
plaster and wood rising from the surface and blinding the fleeing men.
Some deep, primitive survival instinct overrode Mike’s legs, forcing him to dive to the floor. He covered the last ten feet before the exit with a mad, scrambling crawl. As he rolled out of the building, he glanced back to see Turner working the pump shotgun as fast as his arms could move.
Just before clearing the opening, Mike saw Turner go down, his rescuer’s body vibrating as several bullets tore through his torso.
Boyce found himself at the back of the jail. He somehow commanded his legs to move and soon was running like the wind down the nearby alley.
He could hear the shouts of voices behind him, but didn’t dare look to see if he was being pursued. He cut a corner, made another left across a parking lot and then spied what he hoped would be a good hiding spot.
The green dumpster somehow looked appealing to the fleeing man. Without hesitation, he pulled himself up and over the edge, landing in a heap on top of several cardboard boxes and bags of office trash.
He scurried out of the light and into a dim corner, covering himself with the nearest bag and box.
Boots sounded outside the metal container, harsh voices shouting in Spanish. Mike’s heart stopped when a long string of automatic fire sounded, his mind placing the shooter right outside of his hiding spot.
Then the turmoil seemed to move away, the running men and shooting slowly fading into the distance.
Mike didn’t move. With his heart still racing, he was determined to stay put no matter how bad the inside of the dumpster smelled.
