The Surge - 03

by Joe Nobody

  “Anyone can already acquire that category of weaponry,” countered Jack Kimpel, president of the Texas Rifle Association. “Between illegal imports, homegrown modifications, and bump-fire accessories, the street’s capability to shoot a lot of lead won’t be significantly enhanced. Even in the US, with its thick reams of 20,000 pages of gun control laws, criminals can unleash a hailstorm of bullets.”

  The debate raging across our nation’s southern neighbor extends far beyond Class 3 weapons. Gun control encapsulates the controversy that is tearing at the very fabric of Texas’s fight for independence.

  Terms such as “bloated government,” or “authoritarian encroachment on individual liberties,” were commonly spouted by Texas’s elected officials who supported merely allowing the 1938 law to expire without any regulation whatsoever. Eventually, the “small government” factor won, arguing that the creation of such federal agencies as the ATF was a waste of taxpayer money and an infringement on the individual citizen’s Second Amendment rights.

  In fact, one of the few modifications made to Texas’s version of the U.S. Constitution was a clarification to the Second Amendment. The vague wording originally penned by the Founding Fathers had resulted in numerous cases before the Supreme Court and led to countless hours of heated social discourse. The fledgling new republic vowed not to make the same mistake.

  Yet, despite the much-touted clarification, there were still issues.

  “We can’t let every citizen possess nuclear weapons,” commented one Senator. “There have to be limits. The term ‘weapons of mass destruction,’ is fine on paper, but what exactly does that mean? Where do we draw the line?”

  Even those who strongly supported the Second Amendment were divided by the issue.

  “Do we allow everyone to possess rocket launchers? Fully armed battle tanks? Caches of high explosives? Belt-fed weapons? Chemical or biological mortar rounds?” asked the Republican mayor of Dallas during a recently televised debate. “Active shooters in Texas won’t walk into the theater with a handgun or rifle. They’ll flatten the entire building using C4 explosives, or unleash a canister of mustard gas in the food court. If Austin doesn’t do something, we will have complete bedlam in less than 60 days.”

  The controversy runs deep throughout the Lone Star nation and not just in the major cities or along party lines. From the arid west to the great pine forests of the east, the issue has long divided local governments, friends, and families, as well.

  In stark contrast to her father’s position on the issue, Carla Simmons, the daughter of the republic’s first president, leads one of the country’s largest gun control lobbies. “My dad and I normally agree on most things, but not this. I want our citizens armed and free, but there have to be limits and controls. We risk absolute anarchy if everyone has unlimited firepower.”

  In the end, the Texas legislature reached a compromise. Automatic weapons below a certain caliber will soon become legal, as will short-barreled weapons and noise cancelation devices, commonly called “silencers.” A background check will be enforced, and safety training is required. But as long as a citizen doesn’t have any history of mental illness or a felony conviction, purchasing machine guns is legal.

  “It’s a start,” TRA President Kimpel commented. “Even in Texas, we have to compromise now and then.”

  Zach, sensing Sam’s return, stopped reading. She was just in time for her eggs and toast.

  “Why are you reading this liberal fish wrapper? I didn’t know they were even allowed to peddle this crap in Texas anymore.”

  “You can sell anything in our great nation,” she grimaced, pulling a knife full of yellow spread across her toast. “Including automatic weapons, hand grenades, and flame throwers.”

  Shrugging, Zach retorted, “Flame throwers have always been legal. Just saying.”

  Sam’s butter knife returned to the table with just a little more force than necessary. “You know what I mean. Stop being a smartass for just one minute and listen to me. I’m worried about this. Damn worried. My mom has been calling me every day, sure that I’m going to go down in a barrage of gunfire at any moment.”

  “That could happen with or without a new law,” he replied calmly. “Besides, we’re Texas Rangers, invincible, above politics and corruption, fearless protectors of the innocent, and relentless pursuers of villainous humanity.”

  “I don’t feel invincible, and sure as shit, I’m not fearless,” she angrily retorted. “Maybe I shouldn’t be a ranger.”

  Shaking his head, Zach said, “Now stop that. You’re a damn fine peace officer. I couldn’t ask for a better partner…. Well, maybe one that wasn’t always so quarrelsome … but a man can’t have everything. Anyway, I’ll bet you a cup of coffee that we won’t notice any difference after the old law expires. Other than the occasional yahoo spraying a few magazines into the air on New Year’s Eve, things will be just like they are now.”

  Sam didn’t reply, her focus now on wolfing down the eggs and toast. After a quick glance at his watch, Zach understood her rush. Time to go.

  Five minutes later, the two lawmen were rolling out of Alpine, Zach’s government-issue pickup heading west. They were just accelerating up an entrance ramp when Sam pointed out the window, “Check out that gun store over there.”

  Zach glanced over, seeing a recently added banner draped across the front of the establishment. “Open All Night on Freedom Eve,” it declared in bold letters. “Full Autos Will Be In Stock!”

  “Ahhh, capitalism and free enterprise,” Zach grunted. “Don’t you just love democracy?”

  “Once that genie is out of the bottle, there’s no going back,” she snapped. “I can’t believe you’re being so flippant about this.”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” he said. “Unless you want to resign and move to the United States … or Mexico … or wherever. I’m telling you, it’s not going to be any big deal.”

  Sam thumped the newspaper still draped across her lap. “A lot of cops disagree with you on that.”

  “With all due respect to our brother peace officers, we both know they can be a bunch of Chicken Littles, running around shouting about a falling sky. I sometimes wonder why they choose to be cops. Do you remember a few years back, right before the secession, when the state of Texas passed the open carry law?”

  “Yes,” Sam replied, with vile, knowing where her partner was headed.

  “Do you recall all the hubbub? All the police departments waiting for the avalanche of 9-1-1 calls? A lot of these same guys were predicting incidents out the wazoo, like accidental shootings, cops not being able to respond to legitimate calls because they were chasing down ‘man with a gun buying ice cream’ reports. All of the universities were shouting to the high heavens that anarchy was going to envelop our academic institutions. Do you remember all that crap?”

  Sam suddenly found the truck’s floorboard interesting.

  “Do you?” Zach, on a roll, wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

  “Yes,” she finally answered, but not willing to concede the issue. “But this is different, Zach.”

  “How?”

  The debate was interrupted by the jingle of Zach’s mobile phone. He glanced at the cell’s display and then flashed the screen to his partner. “It’s never good when the major calls before sunrise,” Sam whispered.

  “Ranger Bass,” Zach greeted as if he was too busy to glance at the caller ID.

  Sam observed as her partner listened intently, his face curling into a full-blown scowl after only a few moments.

  “We’re on our way, sir. We’re about four hours out,” Zach replied in a voice laced with both pain and anger.

  Zach didn’t need directions to find the scene of the crime. For the last 20 miles, he and Sam had watched a constant stream of helicopters coming, going, and orbiting the location.

  “It looks like somebody kicked a hornet’s nest,” he informed the lady ranger. “And a huge nest at that.”

  Dur
ing the drive down, they’d listened to police radio traffic, as well as a news station whose signal was picked up on the truck’s satellite receiver. None of the information streaming across the airwaves was good. One reporter was already referring to the incident as the “Langtry Massacre.”

  The duo’s first encounter on the ground was a Texas Highway patrol officer manning a roadblock designed to keep nosey civilians away. He recognized Zach before the ranger had rolled to a stop.

  “Morning, officer,” Zach hailed as he lowered the window. “Good to see you again, Trooper Reeves…. Well, sort of.”

  “I hear we’ve got one hell of a mess down there,” the patrolman stoically replied. “Not good. Not good at all.”

  “I hear the same,” Zach responded. “I guess I’d better go earn my pay … see if we can help.”

  “You’ve got plenty of company, Ranger. We’ve got military, civilian, LEO from three counties, and I even let some yahoo from President Simmons’s office through a little bit ago.”

  “Thanks, trooper. See ya later.”

  They were stopped twice more, Zach’s silver-peso badge quickly gaining them access. Since the secession, the rangers were the republic’s equivalent of the FBI, technically the highest law enforcement authority in the land.

  Finally, Zach maneuvered the pickup to the epicenter of the massive response. A huge, flat area outside of Langtry had been converted into a makeshift airport. Dust and exhaust fumes fouled the air, both a product of the near fleet of aircraft that had descended on the sleepy burg.

  There were ambulances, ROTMC vehicles, and a sea of blue emergency lights - even a pair of battle tanks bordering the lane. Sam, noting the number of armed Marines running around and other war-fighting hardware observed, “My gosh! It’s like we’ve been invaded.”

  “From what we’ve heard so far, that’s probably not far off the mark. I just hope those guys don’t get trigger-happy. I know they’re itching for payback. Hell, we would be too if someone had bushwhacked a bunch of rangers. Still, it would be best if cooler heads prevailed sooner rather than later.”

  Again, the ranger’s badge moved them to the front of the line. A few minutes after parking, Zach and Sam were airborne, riding in the next available Blackhawk for the short hop to the scene of the ambush.

  As they descended, Sam pointed to a row of body bags lined neatly on top of the ridge. There were at least 20. “Oh, shit,” the ranger commented under his breath.

  After hopping off their shuttle, the duo rushed to escape the choking cloud of sand and grit blown into the otherwise clear Texas morning. Major Putnam met them at the edge of cleaner air.

  “Ranger Bass, Ranger Temple,” the company commander greeted. “Right this way. There’s a temporary operations center just over the canyon’s crest. We’ll get you up to speed quickly, and then you can survey the crime scene.”

  “Sir?” Zach said over the drone of the helicopter, “Were all of those body bags our people?”

  Putnam’s grimace answered the question without any need for words. As the trio continued walking, he expanded. “Yes. The ROT Marines suffered 23 dead, another 8 wounded. They were on a training exercise and thus weren’t carrying ammunition for their weapons. One of the survivors claims the lieutenant commanding the platoon returned fire, but we’ve yet to confirm that report.”

  “Who hit them, sir?” Sam questioned.

  “Unknown. We’re still interviewing the remaining Marines, but their stories vary wildly. It was dark. Their unit was exhausted, and the assault was a complete surprise. I’ve heard reports varying from 5 to 50 assailants. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle.”

  They arrived at a large tent, several folding tables having been placed in the shade. The state trooper at the roadblock had been accurate when describing the response.

  Workers in a wide assortment of uniforms were hustling in every direction. A bank of radios had been brought in, as well as a small generator to provide electricity. Zach spotted military uniforms with insignias indicating the republic’s military high command had gotten involved. The ranger didn’t blame them.

  Major Putnam led his two officers to a corner of the tent. After checking a small counter for the latest messages, the senior lawman turned and said, “Come on, I’ll give you a tour of the crime scene… or at least, what’s left of it.”

  Their commander led Sam and Zach down a steep trail where several MPs were working around the spray-painted outline of what had been the final resting place of a victim. Scanning the vicinity, Sam could see several similar groups processing a spot where a brave Marine had fallen.

  Given her experience as a Houston homicide detective, the first thing the lady ranger noticed was the lack of shell casings around the deceased. The man who had died here had been shot from a distance.

  Zach looked around politely, nodding to the MPs as they acknowledged the newcomers. After a bit, he glanced at Major Putnam and said, “Sir, I’d like to see where the shooters were.”

  The entire area was marked off with white, yellow, and red tape, denoting sections where it was “safe” to step and other patches where the scene had yet to be processed. Due to the size of the crime scene, quite a bit of evidence had been found and photographed but not yet collected.

  Putnam led his team down a narrow path of white tape, occasionally pointing here and there at some potential clue. Finally, they arrived at a zone dotted with small, numbered cardboard markers. Each represented a spent shell casing resting on the ground.

  A nearby crime scene tech noticed the new arrivals and immediately approached. “Please be careful where you wander,” he warned. “This section hasn’t been photographed yet.”

  Zach nodded and then asked, “Do you have one of the spent casings I could examine?”

  “Sure,” replied the tech. “They’re all the same. 5.56 NATO boxed primer. I’ve seen the markings before. The shooters were using ammunition issued by the Mexican military.”

  “All the same lot, caliber, and type?” Sam inquired, a frown crossing her face.

  “So far. We’ve only recovered about 200 out of what I would guess is close to 400 casings lying around. Every example I’ve seen so far has been identical to the others.”

  Zach rubbed his chin while exchanging worried looks with his partner. “How many rifles?”

  “You’re the hundredth person to ask me that, Ranger. We don’t know yet. Until I can get this scene processed and examine all of the casings under a microscope, I won’t be able to answer that question.”

  Putnam continued the tour that eventually concluded at the bank of the Rio Grande.

  “We’re pretty sure they came across here,” the major announced, pointing at a group of officers snapping pictures and making notes on clipboards. “We found drag marks where some sort of boats or rafts were dragged up on shore. There are also footprints and other signs.”

  “How many boats?” Sam asked.

  “We think two. Our preliminary analysis is that they crossed over, ran into the Marines, initiated the firefight, and then retreated back across the river.”

  Zach’s attention was drawn to the southern side of the waterway where he could see a small group of Mexican authorities searching the shoreline. “Any word from our southern neighbors?”

  “No,” Putnam grunted with a hint of disgust in his tone. “Relations aren’t the best right now. Our ambassador is waiting patiently for the Mexican authorities to communicate any findings. We’ve offered to send across some manpower but were politely reminded to stay on our side of the border.”

  On the way back to the command tent, Zach pointed toward a high outcropping of stone and asked, “Sir, would it be okay if I climbed up on that rock? I’d like to get a little better angle on the whole area.”

  “Sure, Ranger Bass. Knock yourself out.”

  Sam didn’t want to be left behind. A minute later, she found herself scrambling up an incline, trying desperately to keep up with her partner’s longer
limbs.

  Zach finally made it to the pinnacle, and after reaching back with a helping hand, he pulled Sam to the plateau.

  For several minutes, the rangers simply stood and studied the scene below. It was easy to tell where the evidence was clumped together by the number of men processing each sub-scene. From the elevated perch, Zach started recounting what had happened the night before.

  “The Marines’ final objective was Pump Canyon,” the ranger began, pointing to the northwest. “According to the map, that’s less than a mile away. They were working their way down this draw, probably because it was the path of least resistance.”

  Sam nodded her agreement, “It’s logical that the shooters from the other side were using it as well. It’s about the only route north unless you’re a mountain goat.”

  Zach pointed to a small group of deputies, closer to the river. “They ran into each other right there. You can reenact the battle if you follow the line of evidence north. Still, it all doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  Sam flashed a perplexed expression. “Why? It all looks pretty clear to me. The people from the Mexican side were carrying drugs. They ran into the Marines by accident and shot it out with them. After it was over, they retreated. What’s the big mystery?”

  Zach pointed again, “Our friends from across the border continued to push into Texas after they knew the Marines were in the region. That doesn’t fit with the typical dope smugglers or coyotes. Normally, if they had been hauling in weed or heroin or whatever, and they had run into a patrol, they would have scattered, retreated, or run like hell. These guys didn’t. They kept pushing and pushing and pushing. It’s like they were invading, not smuggling.”

  Following her partner’s explanation, Sam surveyed the crime scene in a whole new light. “You know; you’re right. They continued advancing into the main body of the Marine unit. There,” she pointed, “and there and there. It’s like they were out to kill as many of our guys as possible.”