by Joe Nobody
Eventually, a resistance formed, a few officers managing to rally a handful of shaken troops. They even succeeded in killing one of the attackers but didn’t know it until dawn had broken several hours later.
Just as quickly and silently as they had appeared, the remaining 29 shadows faded back into the night. The base they left behind was in absolute bedlam, soldiers running in every direction, firing wildly at shadows and sometimes each other. It was over two hours later before the surviving leaders figured out that the intruders had left and demanded a cease-fire.
Shortly after daybreak, the remaining leadership found the lone enemy causality. He was wearing the uniform and equipment of the Naval Infantry – a Mexican Marine.
“This can’t be true,” a captain spouted, shaking his head. “Why would our own brothers attack us?”
“Sir! Sir, you might want to see this,” shouted a nearby private. “This might answer your question, sir.”
The officer stepped to the corner where the young soldier stood pointing. The captain’s gaze followed the private’s finger, arriving at the base commander’s still-smoking home. On the side, spray painted in large, white letters was a message. “Army Bitches - Remember Veracruz!”
Four hours later, President Salinas had just sat down, ready to call his staff meeting to order. An aide appeared at his shoulder, bending to whisper a message into the chief executive’s ear.
Salinas blanched white, glancing harshly at the messenger seeking to confirm the news.
Two men now seated at the large conference table then drew Salinas’s attention. Both resplendent in their best uniforms, the president’s eyes fixed on the general in charge of the Army and the admiral who commanded the Mexican Navy.
“Everyone else get out … immediately. I need a private word with my military commanders.”
A wave of mumbling rolled through the gathered secretaries and ministers before they began shuffling out.
Curious why they had been singled out, both of the military men sat staring at their boss until the door finally closed behind the last straggler to leave the room.
“General,” Salinas began, nodding toward the man who controlled the entire Mexican Army and Air Force. “You probably will want to turn on your cell phone and call your office in just a moment. There’s been an incident.”
The president began relaying what he’d just learned. “My aide informed me that there were over 50 casualties at the Region IV facility, including the base commander.”
Fire filled the general’s eyes as his head snapped toward the admiral. “Why? Damnit – tell me why!”
“I assure you, General; my forces had nothing to do with this cowardly attack. We both know that uniforms are easy to counterfeit and that the cartels use the same weapons as both of our forces. It wasn’t our doing.”
Mexico’s two branches of armed services had always been in competition with each other. Throughout recent history, they had bickered and quarreled over everything from budget dollars to which honor guard would present the flag at the national soccer championships.
For years, both commanders considered the checks and balances imposed by the Mexican Constitution a positive for both of their respective services, as well as the country as a whole.
All of that had begun to change with the onset of the drug war. The larger branch of the Army had been far more vulnerable to infiltration and corruption than the smaller ranks of the Marines. While the senior officers in both services had done their best to keep the rank and file “clean,” the cartels had still managed to buy, bribe, or influence key Army personnel. When dozens of Special Forces troopers had deserted to join Los Zetas, the government’s faith and confidence in the Army had waned.
This had resulted in the Marines being used to hunt down and kill dozens of cartel leaders. Whenever the whereabouts of a wanted drug lord had been discovered, it was the naval branch that received the call. The situation was at best an embarrassment for the larger service, an insult at worst.
All of that frustration came to the surface when the general learned of the attack at Monterrey. Losing his barely-controlled temper, the senior army officer blasted away at his naval counterpart, “You son of a bitch. For the last five years, I’ve sat here and listened to you boast about your accomplishments and achievements. I’ve suffered in silence, listening as you’ve taken credit for the sun rising in the east and the rain falling from the sky. Wasn’t that enough? Weren’t all of the headlines and heroics enough? I’m beginning to think the cartels are right. I think you want to run the government for yourself and are too impatient to wait for an election.”
The admiral wasn’t a man to take such abuse calmly. “If you could control your own forces, our oversight wouldn’t be necessary. I can’t help it if your entire command structure is on the cartel’s payroll. It’s not my officers who warn those criminals when there is a raid on the way. It’s not my men who sell their weapons and ammo to the cartel soldiers. You cooked up this septic stew, so stop whining like a schoolgirl about how the hot broth burns your mouth.”
The general didn’t rise to the insult, nor did he let his temper continue to run rampid. Instead, his intellect kicked in, overriding emotion with cool, logical, analytical thinking. Tilting his head in thought, his voice sounded with a cold monotone. “You think we had something to do with unleashing the plague at Veracruz, don’t you? You sent those murderers to Monterrey for vengeance, didn’t you?”
“We have no proof of any Army involvement at Veracruz,” the admiral replied smugly. “If I did, I would approach the president with such facts, not launch some middle of the night raid on one of your bases.”
“You are a coward and a traitor!” the general growled.
While the admiral and president sat stunned by the accusation, the general pushed back his chair with an angry motion and stood ramrod straight. “You won’t get away with this coup. Not while I still walk this earth. I am loyal to the president and the republic, and I will fight you every step of the way.”
“Gentlemen … please….” Salinas pleaded as the senior commander pivoted for the door.
It was too little, too late, as the Army’s head honcho stormed out without another glance or word.
The convoy left Mexico City at dawn, rolling out of the base’s gates with double the number of escort and security personnel. A platoon of military police, two companies of infantry, and a contingent of paratroopers were accompanying the column, assigned to protect the much-needed cargo from any threat.
Behind the lead element of Humvees was a string of 18-wheel, over-the-road semis, each filled to the brim with food, ammunition, and the spare parts required to resupply an army in the field.
The shipment was a regular event, Mexico’s logistical supply line ruled by a doctrine that kept the vast warehouses of materials close to the capital, so the precious cargo didn’t end up on the black market.
The destination of this morning’s column was Reynosa, a city of over 700,000 residents, and the colonel commanding the resupply effort was on edge.
Residing just across the border from McAllen, Texas, the Mexican community had suffered over a decade of extreme violence as the government and various cartels had battled for control.
Since the millennium, the town had changed hands no less than four times as the Gulf Cartel and Los Zetas had fought each other in the streets. Whichever side managed to gain the upper hand would then have to deal with the Army and eventually a large contingency of Marines.
The entire community had breathed a sigh of relief when Z-44 and El General had called a truce. Seemingly overnight, the routine sound of automatic weapons and hand grenades had been silenced. Some of the more optimistic citizens held out hope that days of mass killings was behind them.
The plague hadn’t reached this part of northern Mexico, and with the Marines in town, many of the border town’s residents began returning to a peaceful lifestyle they hadn’t experienced in years.
No
t all was well, however. Since the attacks at Monterrey and Veracruz, the Army and Marine contingencies had been eyeing each other through the fog of suspicion. Rather than cooperate on patrols, checkpoints, and schedules, as before, the two branches of the Mexican military had been operating independently. Still, both sides had reached an unspoken agreement, mostly avoiding each other until the confusion in Mexico City and elsewhere died down.
The convoy would have to visit both contingents today.
They arrived at the Army’s base of operations first, dozens of soldiers rushing to offload the trucks while clerks with clipboards shouted orders and kept counts. It was always a hectic exercise, sorting beans from bullets, separating medical supplies from laundry detergent.
During the controlled riot that was the unloading, no one noticed one of the base’s civilian workers attaching a stainless steel canister to the underneath of a semi-trailer, nor did anyone catch the same man applying a second pressurized tank to a truck down the line.
After receiving an inch-high stack of signed inventory sheets and bills of lading, the convoy was rolling out of the gates, making its way to the Marine contingency stationed on the opposite side of town.
The Marines had moved into what had once been a regional law enforcement training center. The commander of the local garrison was a hard-nosed major, who, due to his heroic conduct in combat, had been nicknamed “Hellcat.”
The resupply convoy was expected that day, but Major Hellcat wasn’t absolutely sure when or if the Army would deliver. Rumors were sweeping both branches of the service, some of his fellow officers absolutely certain the country was on the verge of a civil war.
When the major’s office phone rang, he was hoping it was the front gate giving notice that the convoy had finally arrived. Instead, a voice he didn’t recognize warned, “The Army convoy is a Trojan horse. There are canisters of plague under the first and third truck. Beware.”
Stunned by the statement, the Marine officer didn’t immediately return the phone to its cradle. His inaction, however, didn’t last long.
“Put the base on full alert!” he shouted to his assistant. “Sound the alarm! Don’t let that Army convoy inside the gates!”
His orders soon produced results, the sound of shouting men and pounding boots resonating throughout the small facility.
Men in full battle loads were rushing in all directions, hustling for their designated defensive positions. Two up-armored Humvees, complete with .50 caliber, turret-mounted machine guns, raced for the front gate as reinforcements leaped into the sandbag-fortified nests that surrounded the perimeter.
When the convoy finally arrived, the Army colonel in the lead vehicle found himself staring at a multitude of gun barrels backed by a host of very frightened young men.
Initially, the resupply officer wrote it off to the incidents at Monterrey and Veracruz. “Marines,” he whispered to his driver. “They are a paranoid lot. Let me get this straightened out so we can get out of here and back to Mexico City and our families.”
The officer exited his Humvee and strolled casually toward the main entrance. He hadn’t managed five steps when a voice shouted, “Halt! Approach no closer or we will fire!”
The colonel did just that, stopping in the middle of the lane and spreading his hands wide. “What is the problem,” he yelled back with a sly grin. “Don’t you want to eat?”
Major Hellcat and three of his men came through the gate, their weapons high, ready, and trained on the superior officer. When he was closer, the base commander said, “We’ve received information stating your convoy is carrying the plague.”
Tilting his head, the Army officer replied, “That’s preposterous. We just left Mexico City this morning and have only made one stop at the Army base. We aren’t carrying the damn plague.”
“Then you won’t mind if we have a look before you’re allowed inside the gate?”
Sweeping his arm wide to indicate the column of idling trucks, the colonel said, “Suit yourself. Have a look. We have nothing to hide.”
Hellcat turned and made a motion with his arm, waving forward a contingent of men wearing gas masks. No one was for sure that the filters would protect against the germs, but it was the only option available on the remote outpost.
As the four-man inspection crew made its way toward the line of trucks, several of the troops assigned as convoy security began dismounting.
Stopping at the first semi, the leader of the Marine team took less than a minute to spot the shiny steel canister. Despite being muffled by the heavy mask covering his face, his shouts for everyone to get back could be heard clearly up and down the line.
Still thinking the entire affair was simply bullshit, the colonel headed for the now-freaking, still-masked Marines. “It’s there, sir. A silver container that doesn’t belong on the truck. I saw it!” reported the nearly panicked inspector.
Shaking his head, the colonel stooped low and scanned the underside of the semi until he saw the offending canister. While its surface was clean and looked new compared to the other equipment on the trailer, he believed it was simply a replacement part that had been recently added during the last maintenance session.
As he reached to touch the container, Hellcat thought the officer was trying to “set off” the device. “Stop!” the Marine commander screamed. “Don’t touch that!”
The colonel didn’t heed the order, his usually low-key temperament about full of the disrespectful junior officer.
The inspector, now certain the rumors about the Army trying to kill Marines had been verified, fired his weapon.
Three 5.56 NATO rounds struck the colonel across the back, their impact spinning the half-bent officer in a circle as his arms flayed wide, tossing the unattached canister at the gathered Marines.
Absolute pandemonium erupted.
Hearing the burst of fire and seeing their commander go down, the Army escorts assumed the reverse gossip was true – that the Marines were killing soldiers. The convoy troopers shouldered their weapons and began firing at the inspection team and Major Hellcat.
As more and more Army infantry jumped from their trucks, the two machine guns at the gate opened fire, spraying the convoy’s riflemen as they scrambled for cover. Within 20 seconds, the two sides were fully engaged in an intense firefight.
In one of the rear-most trucks, a young lieutenant managed to push down the terror that filled his core and reached for the radio. In a voice filled with panic, he began broadcasting his unit, the convoy designator, their location, and a desperate plea for help.
At the same time, Major Hellcat’s second in command was doing the same thing in the facility’s communications room. “We are under attack! I repeat. The base is under attack!” he broadcasted over the Navy’s emergency frequencies.
The Marine base housed a garrison of nearly 200 men, outnumbering the Army forces by 2:1. Yet, despite their superior numbers, they had been ordered to protect the base, not assault a convoy. Tucked into their defensive positions, the base’s defenders were content to keep the interlopers at bay.
Strings of glowing tracers and a nearly constant rattle of automatic fire raged back and forth, both sides recovering from the initial shock of the fight. Two of the semis were now burning, their fuel tanks punctured by the blizzard of lead streaming from the base.
Inside the compound, a barracks suffered a similar fate as dozens of incoming rounds managed to set the structure on fire. The two sides now had to deal with a thick layer of smoke adding to the haze of civil war.
Major Hellcat barely managed to escape, geysers of dust chasing him back to the gate as he sprinted the fastest dash of his life. He was luckier than the rest of the inspection team. Their bloody bodies, lying in the open across the lane, served to motivate the barricaded defenders. The colonel’s corpse had the same effect on the men in his command.
The first reinforcements to arrive were from the Army base the convoy had just resupplied. The commander of that facilit
y had no idea what was going on. He was accustomed to fighting the cartels and sometimes even corrupt police. When he finally arrived at the scene of the battle, four trucks were burning, and the fire inside the base had spread to the enlisted head.
The Marines, seeing their foe reinforced, again began broadcasting a series of desperate radio calls for help. “The Army is trying to overrun our base! More and more of them keep arriving. We can’t hold out for long.”
All across northern Mexico, forces from both branches began responding. The regional Army commander, a general destined to become the supreme commander when his superior retired next cycle, diverted his helicopter and flew over the encircled base. Meanwhile, the Mexican Navy was scrambling every available man to come to the aid of its comrades.
The next encounter occurred less than two hours after the convoy’s colonel had been gunned down. While the firefight raged at the outpost, a relief column of Marines encountered an Army checkpoint 20 kilometers south of Reynosa, and an extended gun battle left the roadblock in flaming ruins. There were causalities on both sides.
Mexico City scrambled a flight of two F4 Phantom fighter jets to overfly Reynosa. They encountered several naval helicopters rushing reinforcements to the besieged base and shot two of the birds from the sky after receiving direct orders from the regional commander.
The situation escalated rapidly, the command and control networks of the underfunded military quickly overwhelmed. Confusion, miscommunications, and panic led to an ever-deepening soup of war. Reports of skirmishes, ambushes, and outright battles were coming in from all over the country.
In some areas, the cartel joined the fray. Warned by El General and Z-44, the local drug lords were watching closely, waiting for the chance to use their extensive private armies to influence, incite, or execute a quick hit and run when an opportunity was presented.
