by Joe Nobody
Juan’s village was just over 10 kilometers away. A small community of peasant farmers, the people were poor, mostly uneducated, and isolated from the rest of the world.
Bamboo was an important building material to the village, used for everything from roofs to fences. Adobe and stone walls were reinforced by the stout shafts that played much the same role as rebar in concrete structures.
Lately, there had been a bonus crop growing along the ancient waterway – cattails were plentiful this year, much to the delight of his neighbors and friends. Everything from bread to toothpaste could be made from the shallow-water crop, the nutritious tubers one of the local favorites.
A few weeks ago, another windfall had come Juan’s way.
A group of strangers had arrived in the settlement’s dirt square and had begun asking a lot of questions. Juan knew right away the new arrivals were “Soldado de la nacho,” or night soldiers … cartel shooters … banditos.
The simple folk of the hamlet weren’t overly concerned. They had nothing to steal other than the younger women of the community, and there were few of those who had not moved to the metropolitan areas to make money and find husbands. Many of the locals simply made the sign of the cross in hopes of banishing evil and went on about their business. They realized they lacked resources to challenge the visitors if they did decide to cause trouble.
When the group of compañeros began asking about activity along the river, Juan was thrust uncomfortably into the limelight. They soon put him at ease, however, offering American cigarettes and waving around handfuls of pesos in exchange for information.
Twice more they returned, each time seeking out Juan and asking about his ventures to the bamboo fields along the river. His answers were always honest and seemed to encourage the younger men. He never saw any activity along the gringos’ side of the river. No hikers, policia, or military. Only the occasional small herd of cattle, and once, months ago, a rancher had waved to him from the northern bank.
Identifying themselves as brothers of the Gulf Cartel, they had made Juan an offer he couldn’t refuse. It was a simple thing, requiring very little risk and offering an enormous reward.
Arriving at the edge of a sheer cliff, the old villager stared down at the Rio Grande as if gazing at a beautiful señorita. The great river had always provided for his family, and today, it was going to make him a wealthy man. At least by local standards.
Hefting his machete, Juan continued down the narrow path that led to the river below. The only thing different about today’s trip was the whistle clasped tightly in his hand. His instructions were simple enough. If he saw or heard anything unusual, he was to blow on the device as loudly as his lungs could manage.
He kept a sharp lookout, scanning with more focus than usual, looking for anything out of the ordinary on the northern side of the waterway. There was nothing. Nada. Only the same barren landscape that had met his gaze for the last few decades.
Back at the pinnacle of the canyon, the bamboo covering the bed of Juan’s pickup rustled with activity. Gloved hands pushed aside the thin layer of stalks, revealing five men hiding beneath the green screen. A few moments later, they were pouring over the ancient Ford’s rusty fenders. Two more emerged from similar camouflage covering the small trailer hitched to the old truck.
The seven masked faces scanned right and left, Mexican military-issued FX-05 battle rifles sweeping the surrounding countryside.
Had there been anyone there to witness their actions, the onlooker would have surely thought he was seeing a small squad of Special Forces troopers readying for an operation. Such an observation would have been based on not only the body armor, load vests bulging with equipment, and heavy packs, but the coordination and controlled movements of the armed men.
That conclusion wouldn’t have been in error. After the rise of the Los Zetas, all of the organizations that made up Mexico’s patchwork of organized crime had begun recruiting from Mexico’s elite Special Forces, or the Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales. Such men could make 100 times their military salary working for the cartels while at the same time enjoying better equipment, quarters, and leadership.
In less than a minute, the squad wound down the trail, moving swiftly for concealment. They would wait to cross the river after nightfall.
The lieutenant’s ire was directed at the gunnery sergeant. While the captain had issued the orders designating Eagle’s Nest as the training area, the younger officer was certain this particular hell on earth was the gunny’s doing.
For 11 hours, his unit had struggled through the impossible terrain. With the blistering heat, leg-biting cactus, and jagged rocks, he’d been cut, gashed, poked, and burned to the point where he regretted ever joining the Republic of Texas Marine Corps.
The nightmare had intensified after sunset; his lead element slowed to a crawl by the low light conditions.
Now a new challenge was impeding their progress. The temperature had fallen like the stones that surrounded them, dropping 40 degrees in less than 90 minutes. Strained, sweat-soaked bodies began to shiver and cramp. Men had trouble maintaining their footing and handholds. The unit had suffered a twisted ankle and a nasty laceration in just the last 15 minutes.
For the tenth time, the LT considered calling over his radio man and throwing in the towel. He would broadcast his surrender to the captain and resign his commission in the morning. He was probably going to be given a reprimand anyway. His personnel file would be flush with negative entries that denoted how he’d failed to execute even the simplest field exercise. They were hours behind schedule. They had training causalities. He’d failed.
The young officer could just hear the captain’s harsh words. “How can you lead men into battle if you can’t even manage to move a small unit from point A to point B? There wasn’t even anyone shooting at you, Lieutenant! How can the soldiers under your command possibly hope to survive a hostile encounter? What the hell are you going to do when high-velocity shit is flying at your head? Pick up your smartphone, call mommy, and tell her you want to quit?”
His mind, however, rejected the urge to give up. From some deep corner of his consciousness swelled a seething anger, a rage that provided the fuel to continue the struggle. He forced his numb, exhausted legs to take another step … to square his shoulders and hold up his head. He was a leader. He was an officer. He would set the example.
That wave of motivation had nothing to do with pride, honor, or reputation. Yes, he was a Republic of Texas Marine. Over and over again, it had been pounded into his heart, mind, and soul that quitting wasn’t an option. Real fighting men didn’t give up. The Corps didn’t allow such thinking. He was an officer, sworn to leave nothing behind … to lay it all out … to carry on until the final breath was expelled from his aching lungs.
All of that sounded great on the parade ground, obstacle course, and in the classroom. Bravado and esprit de corps were attributes that had made the Marine Corps so attractive in the first place. He was a highly motivated individual who wanted to surround himself with like-minded men.
In a single day, Eagle’s Nest Creek had evaporated all of the comradery, bluster, and starch from his core. None of it served to move his legs; none of it mattered anymore.
No, what did give him strength was more of a personal nature – he wasn’t going to let that son of a bitch gunny win.
His thoughts were interrupted with yet another halt to the struggling column’s forward progress. “Movement, ahead,” came the whispered voice of his lead element over the radio. “Multiple contacts.”
“Jesus Wilson Roosevelt Christ,” the officer hissed, moving toward the front of the column. “Aren’t the terrain and heat enough, Gunny? Now you’ve got to fuck with us some more?”
The first gunshots actually didn’t surprise the LT. It was just like that three-striped old bastard to send in some of his buddies, armed with blanks, to mess with the trainees.
When the man beside the lieutenant fell to the ground clutch
ing his chest, it was the first indication that something was terribly wrong.
The incoming volume of fire intensified – rock chips, sand, and zipping rounds creating havoc among the Marines. While they were carrying their weapons, only the LT’s pistol had live ammunition … for snakes. This was a training exercise. His men were unarmed … as helpless as infants in their cribs.
Multiple weapons were now spraying the line of soldiers with deadly fire. Cries of pain and agony echoed off the canyon’s walls, competing with curses and shouts of confusion.
Men were screaming, diving for cover, or frozen where they stood. No one knew what was happening. Why were people shooting at them? Why were their friends falling bloodied to the desert floor?
A few men shouted, “Republic of Texas Marines!” hoping the incoming hailstorm of bullets was a case of mistaken identity. Others stared at their commander, waiting with eager faces for his orders.
Suddenly, it all became crystal clear to the shocked officer. They had run into smugglers or criminals – armed intruders who thought his men were some sort of law enforcement patrol.
“Fall back! Fall back!” the officer shouted over the chaos as he reached for his sidearm. “Fall back!”
The lieutenant caught a glimpse of a muzzle flash right as another of his command was cut down. He was shocked at how calm his mind seemed to be. The muscle strain and exhaustion had disappeared from his body; his hands were steady.
The shadowy outline of the shooter was clear now. Centering the front post of his .45, he fired two shots and felt a sense of relief when the foe went down.
Movement drew the officer’s eye, a strobe of muzzle flashes chasing another Marine as he scurried for better cover. The LT fired, again and again, his finger working the trigger until the enemy’s body shifted its direction and dove for the ground.
The rock next to the LT’s head exploded with stone-shrapnel and chips. The officer was stunned as he realized the shooter was the first man he’d taken down. Body armor? These guys were wearing body armor!
The officer knew his handgun wouldn’t penetrate Kevlar. That meant his unit was completely defenseless. “Fall back!” he screamed again, turning to run. “Fall back!”
Searing, red-hot pain erupted across the LT’s back, his legs no longer answering his brain’s command to run. His last vision was the ground rushing toward his face, and then the world exploded in a shower of white, streaking light.
“What the fuck is that idiot lieutenant doing, Gunny?” the captain asked for the third time, scanning toward the last known position of his men. “Who the hell is shooting? I didn’t authorize any live fire or dummy rounds!”
“I don’t know, sir, but I think we’d better call in some help.”
The senior officer hesitated, listening intently as the thunder of gunfire rolled through the matrix of canyon walls. There was another sound as well.
Finally, it dawned. “They’re screaming like a bunch of schoolgirls, Sergeant. What the hell?”
The NCO heard the secondary noise as well, but his ear had the benefit of experience. After surviving multiple tours in two different wars wearing the U.S. uniform, he knew immediately that the training platoon was in serious trouble.
“Those are the screams of wounded men, sir. I don’t think it’s our people doing the shooting. Call for help, Captain. Right now!”
As the bewildered officer fumbled for his cell phone, Gunny was racing for the bed of the Corps-issued pickup. Pulling back a heavy tarp, he extracted an M4 carbine. In a flash, a magazine appeared in his hand, slamming into the weapon with an audible clank. That action was immediately followed by the mechanical racking of the rifle being charged. Gunny never left the base unarmed.
The sergeant appeared at the captain’s side just as the officer’s frantic phone call was answered by the base operator. In a rushed voice, “Get me the base commander… now… we’re taking fire.”
The Marine answering the phones was confused. “Who is this? Buddy, do you know it’s a crime to prank call a military institution?”
By the time the officer had explained the situation, the distant gunfire had stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. The two Marines on the ridge exchanged worried looks. “I’m waiting for someone to find the CO,” the captain whispered, blocking the cell’s mic with his cupped hand.
Exasperated, the gunny reached for his own cell phone, punching 9-1-1 with enough force that he nearly shattered the smartphone’s screen.
“Sheriff’s Department, state the nature of your emergency.”
Gunny did his best to explain the events of the last 10 minutes to the operator. To say the dispatcher was confused would have been an understatement.
At about the same time as the captain was finally connected to the new base’s commander, gunny was transferred to a watch supervisor and had to start the entire explanation all over again. The frustration was evident in both men’s voices as they pleaded for assistance … any sort of help.
Both calls ended at about the same moment.
“Val Verde County is sending a SWAT team and a copter,” the sergeant informed his commander.
“The base commander is sending armed MPs and scrambling some Blackhawks,” the officer announced. “Can we get over there?” he asked, looking at the sergeant’s loaded weapon. “How long would it take us to reach them?”
“There’s no way, sir. There are two slot canyons between them and us. It would take at least two hours if the platoon made good time. I recommend we drive back up to the main road and wait for the cavalry to arrive. We can lead them in from there, maybe hitch a ride on one of the incoming birds.”
The captain had never experienced anything like the frustration that surged through his being. The feeling of helplessness was bitter, filling his mouth with the foul taste of bile. Yet, he knew the sergeant was right. They would have to wait. There was simply no way for him to reach the men. It was maddening.
A minute later, their pickup was bouncing down the dirt path, neither man in the cab seeming to notice the jarring ride.
They made it to Highway 90 and turned to the southeast. It was only a short distance to the bridge that crossed Eagle’s Nest Creek.
They parked alongside the road with no other course of action than to sit and wait for reinforcements. Clearly concerned about their comrades, their anxious glances constantly alternated between the land to the south where their men were likely wounded and the horizon where the military’s birds were expected.
It was the sergeant who first spotted the blinking lights on the skyline. Both men watched with eager anticipation as the law enforcement helo diverted toward the coordinates gunny had provided earlier. A moment later, the flashing strobes of a squad car came into view as a deputy rushed toward their location.
The helicopter’s searchlight switched on just as the police car pulled alongside the two waiting Marines. After a quick exchange, all eyes returned to the sky and watched as the helicopter began searching.
It only took the pilots three minutes to find the missing platoon, the discovery confirmed over the deputy’s radio. “We’re going to need medivac,” the pilot’s worried voice radioed back. “A lot of medivacs… and a lot of help. We’ve got bodies strewn all over the ground down there.”
Chapter 2
Zach watched his partner rush into the diner, a thick newspaper and thermos tucked under Samantha’s arm.
“You’re late,” he stated with a smirk. Nodding at the birdcage liner, he continued, “Get caught up in a good story?”
She ignored him, tossing the edition on the table and then holding out the thermos to an approaching waitress. “I need this filled with hot tea, please. And an egg … over hard … and two slices of sourdough toast with margarine, not butter.”
“You seem a little flustered, Ranger Temple,” Zach grinned.
“Your powers of observation are legendary, bordering on the supernatural, Ranger Bass,” the female officer answered sarcastically.
“I’m surprised somebody hasn’t based a comic book on you,” she continued, reaching for the chair. She paused as she sneered at her mental image of the Justice League’s newest member, SuperBoy in Blue. Her mind’s picture of Zach in cobalt tights and cape complete with silver star, boots and cowboy hat tickled her greatly. She covered her smile with her hand and coughed to disguise her amusement. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” she said, pivoting in the direction of the restroom.
After watching her disappear, Zach flipped the newspaper around. It was a two-day-old edition of the New York Times with a headline that read, “Texas Police Prepare for Bloodbath.”
“What the hell is Sam doing with this rag?” he mused, tossing a glance again at the ladies room door. “I’m going to have a word with her later.”
Tilting back the broad brim on his western hat, the ranger began reading:
In three days, the Treaty of Secession will celebrate its 2-year anniversary. As per the terms of the controversial agreement that created the world’s newest republic, several grandfathered U.S. laws will expire.
One of the most controversial is the Federal Firearms Act of 1938, which among other things, restricts the general public from purchasing fully automatic weapons. Three days ago, after a lengthy debate, the Texas legislature passed a new law that will allow such weapons to be purchased by the citizenry.
Within the Lone Star Nation, there has been widespread pushback over the effectiveness and necessity of creating an equivalent of America’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, or ATF as it is commonly known. The ATF is the primary agency charged with enforcing the 1938 act in the United States and her territories.
“We’re preparing our officers for the worst,” stated Captain Anthony Morse of the Austin Police Department. “Every bank robber, gang banger, mental case, and violent felon will now be able to acquire weapons that can spray 30 bullets in a less than three seconds.”
