The Surge - 03

by Joe Nobody

  “There have been sporadic clashes here for the last two hours,” the excited reporter blurted. “Gunfire can be heard throughout the downtown area as the Juarez Police appear to have sided with the Naval Infantry against the Army.”

  The reporter’s eyes suddenly shot skyward, the shaky cameraman following the newsman’s line of sight.

  It took a few seconds for the video to focus on a small dot in the bright, blue sky. Another moment passed as the camera zoomed and then focused.

  There was a helicopter in the distance, its dark green paint, along with the Mexican flag painted on the tail section, indicating it was a military bird. Any doubt regarding the aircraft’s ownership was eliminated when the red exhaust of rockets began streaming from the two pods mounted below the fuselage.

  Explosions rumbled in the distance, pillars of smoke and dust rising into the air as the cameraman struggled to keep up with fast moving projectiles.

  “You can see how close the fighting is to the center of Juarez!” shouted the hyped-up correspondent.

  The picture returned to the copter as it engaged in a slow, banking turn. Without warning, a throbbing white streak rose from the ground, the red plume of missile exhaust clearly visible across the airwaves.

  The pilot evidently saw it, too, as the helicopter banked hard to change direction and pointed its nose in a dive toward the earth.

  The avoidance maneuver was only partially successful, a small, dark cloud of smoke and shrapnel exploding near the aircraft’s tail section.

  “It looks like some sort of shoulder-fired missile has been used against that helicopter,” the reporter's voice sounded in the background.

  The picture then showed black smoke pouring from the wounded bird’s bay as the pilot struggled to maintain controlled flight. After a few seconds, it was obvious the aircraft was going down.

  The camera angle was good enough to show the helpless copter spinning around and around as it sailed through the sky, orange flames engulfing its frame as it lost altitude.

  A skyline appeared at the bottom of the picture, a cluster of skyscrapers and streets now coming clear. “Oh my God!” the journalist screeched. “It’s heading for El Paso!”

  Six seconds later, the helicopter slammed into a tall, white building, a crimson and mustard-colored ball of fire blossoming as the remaining fuel and munitions exploded on impact.

  “It’s struck the bank tower in El Paso! It’s hit the building!” the shocked newsman managed to report. “I can see flames…. The building is on fire! Oh, my God!”

  Vincent grunted and then turned to his bodyguard, “Inform Weekend that business requires a change in our plans for this evening. Take her ashore for shopping if she wishes. It might be our last opportunity for a while.”

  After the protector had left, the cartel honcho turned to his trusted advisor. So, Señor, what is rolling around in that devious mind of yours? We are doing well, are we not?”

  Ghost sighed, but not enough to embarrass the man who was replenishing his retirement plan. “Get Z-44 on a secure connection. We must accelerate the timeline.”

  Zach was on Samantha’s couch and nursing a cold brew when the news of the spillover into El Paso flashed across the television screen.

  The two rangers watched in silence as the images played, several ambulances surrounded by wide-eyed, scrambling men in every assortment of facemask and respirator imaginable.

  The view then moved skyward, the blackened windows of the El Paso bank tower reminding the two rangers of 9-11. “I wonder if that building is going to collapse.” Sam ventured.

  The news then switched to Mexico City where a huge crowd of marchers filled the massive square in front of the National Palace. Many of the protesters were wearing masks, and Zach didn’t think it was to protect them from tear gas or air pollution.

  The cameraman made a point to show several of the homemade banners and signs carried by the throng, many of them in English. “Death to Gringos,” was a common mantra.

  “That mob is more frightened than angry,” Sam commented. “Look at their eyes.”

  Zach had to agree, “Yes, I think you’re right. I also believe that will change in the next few days. Fear has a way of manifesting itself into a rage.”

  The anchorman then appeared, his commentary sending a chill down both of the law officers’ spines. “Our sources are reporting that the government offices in the Mexican state of Sinaloa have closed, the governor scheduled to make an announcement soon. We’re also hearing reports of police and other first responders calling in sick or failing to report for duty throughout Mexico. More on this as it becomes available.”

  The lady ranger muted the broadcast, “Why hasn’t our government said anything? Why hasn’t Texas told Mexico who’s responsible and what they're dealing with? Fort Hood and the military’s secrets aside, you’d think Simmons would spill the beans before we have a hot war right on our doorstep.”

  Zach shook his head, “I have no idea. Decisions like that are way, way above our pay grade. Maybe Simmons has told them, and they’re keeping it quiet for some reason. I mean, this is international politics – there’s seldom any logic or common sense involved.”

  Grunting her agreement, Sam said, “I used to like being in on secrets and the internal workings of the republic, but not with stuff like this. It’s frustrating as hell sitting here, knowing the truth and not being able to utter a single word of it.”

  Zach indicated the television with a nod of his head, “Chico said the cartels wanted to overthrow the government. I guess he was right all along. Mexico will tear itself apart if this keeps up, and you and I both know a civil war down there will leak into Texas if things get really, really bad. We’ve had two incidents already, and they’re barely getting started down there.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that we are going to be pulled into this?” Sam pondered aloud.

  The two rangers continued discussing the situation until Zach finally rose and stretched his long-limbed frame. “I should probably head into the Austin office and catch up on my paperwork. Do you need anything else before I leave?”

  Before Sam could answer, Zach’s cell phone rang with “Hail to the Chief,” the familiar tone assigned to Major Putnam.

  “Ranger Bass,” barked Putnam. “We have a situation brewing in the capital city. The colonel is calling all hands on deck. Report to the executive branch offices. Now.”

  “Right away, sir. What’s going on?”

  “There is a demonstration in progress, and the colonel is concerned that things might get out of hand.”

  Zach rolled his eyes at the curious, eavesdropping Sam while mumbling, “I am on my way, sir.”

  After disconnecting the call, Zach filled his partner in on the so-called emergency. “You called it. From what the major just said, we’re already involved. You don’t have any riot gear in your closet, do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. But God help me if my gear is large enough to cover your sorry ass,” she grinned. “Seriously, though, I do have some leather and lace if you are the kind of guy who can improvise,” she added with an eyebrow waggle, trying to break the tension that suddenly filled the room.

  Zach ignored the suggestion, his expression all business. Out of habit, he pulled his sidearm, dropped the magazine and verified the contents. “I’ll call you later,” he said, pivoting in a rush toward the door.

  “Be careful,” she whispered too late. He was already gone.

  The march had started at Austin’s House Park, the organizers using social media and sympathetic news outlets to spread the word.

  Details of the protest rolled like wildfire across the nearby campus of Texas Tech, many of the 28,000 plus undergraduates already seething over the news that their country had been involved in the research and development of biological weapons. The fact that the plague-genie had escaped from the bottle simply added fuel to the fire.

  Every Hispanic political organization in the city jumped o
n the bandwagon, many of the members having family that resided in Mexico. Even the Catholic Archdiocese got involved, informing parishioners of the event and decrying the catastrophe that was occurring south of the border.

  To say the northern Latino community was in an uproar would be an understatement. As in Mexico, rumors of conspiracy, racism, bigotry, and even a purposeful attack were zipping across the internet. Some of the most radical opinions held that the government of Texas had intentionally provided the weapons of mass destruction, others claiming that it was simply a matter of Gringo loathing Chicano.

  After an hour of blaring megaphone speeches and a few dozen volunteers handing out flyers with a variety of inflaming messages, the parade of nearly 6,000 people began marching down West 15th Street toward the capitol building. This, of course, prompted a serious amount of concern from the Austin Police Department.

  In addition to being the government center of the Republic of Texas, Austin was a college town and host to several large music festivals. This translated into the APD having some experience controlling unruly crowds. When patrolling officers saw the size of the mob forming in the park, the mounted units were hastily called into service.

  At Lavaca Street, less than two blocks from the grounds of the capitol building, the demonstrators ran straight into a barricade of 20 police cars and a line of mounted officers. The message was clear - the protest would be allowed no closer. Behind the blue wall was the ominous presence of the Austin Fire Department’s massive ladder truck, its water cannon pointed at the advancing throng.

  This, of course, didn’t sit well with the ginned-up mob. They wanted to take their message to the men who directed the republic. They demanded access to the capitol.

  For 30 minutes, the march stalled, the crowd mingling, milling, and occasionally hurling a strong statement at the wall of police blocking the street.

  A few hundred hardy souls decided to circumvent the roadblock and approach the capitol building from a different route. It quickly became apparent that a ring of police officers had formed around the entire perimeter.

  Zach, along with a dozen other rangers, was assigned a secondary position in the building housing the executive branch’s offices. Their orders were to deal with any stragglers that might manage to elude the picket line of law enforcement. If things appeared to be getting out of hand, they would evacuate President Simmons.

  The main body of activists remained on 15th. Their numbers, however, were growing by the minute. The captain commanding the APD presence was just fine with conceding that single street but had orders to give no additional ground.

  After an hour, it became apparent that the local cops had done an excellent job of containing the crowd. At 90 minutes, Simmons had finished with the day’s government business and was ready to leave for a groundbreaking ceremony in Houston.

  When the chief executive was safely on his way to the presidential helicopter, Zach found himself curious regarding what was happening at the primary site. After hiding his badge and replacing his western hat with his lucky baseball cap, the ranger meandered his way through the police lines to stand at the edge of the huge mass of protestors.

  As with many such events, there appeared to be a variety of messages, demands, and points of view. Directly in front of the ranger was a large group of Latino women holding signs declaring “La Raza Lives Again!”

  The ranger knew that La Raza was a political movement established in Central Texas in the mid-1960s. During an era when national headlines were controlled with stories of the Deep South’s struggle with segregation and civil rights issues, Texas had faced similar challenges with its Latino population.

  Jim Crowe laws existed in the Lone Star State at the time, their discriminating cross hairs primarily aimed at those born with brown rather than black skin. Throughout the Rio Grande Valley, many of the communities had been founded by people with names like Martinez, Garcia, and Briones. They were the Tejanos, and it wasn’t uncommon for these early residents to own prosperous ranches and businesses that had been established decades before Texas was even considered for statehood. Yet discrimination ran rampant, society divided by creed and heritage.

  Just as great leaders emerged from the oppressed African American population in places like Mississippi and Alabama, similar men arose from the Latino communities in Texas. By the end of the 1960s, the movement was gaining steam and making headway. A decade later, much of the inequality had been eliminated – at least officially.

  While the intensity of the struggle in Central and Southern Texas wasn’t as violent as the headline-grabbing campaigns of Dr. Martin Luther King and others, the conflict had been intense. They had rallied the people into a new political party – La Raza Unified.

  By 1972, however, Hispanic sheriffs, school boards, mayors, and town councilmen were being elected throughout southern Texas. Finally, one citizen equaled one vote, and the result was representation that was proportional to the demographics of the population.

  While a racial divide still existed throughout much of the West, the Latino civil rights movement lost steam during the latter portions of the 20st century. Some claimed it was the FBI sabotaging the leadership; others simply wrote it off to the progress that had been achieved. The Democratic Party played a role as well, making a concerted effort to integrate those with a Latin heritage into its fold.

  La Raza Unified had faded as a political entity, but now the events in Mexico seemed to have reignited the concept – at least for the people directly in front of Zach’s perch.

  The ranger moved on, staying well away from the main body of protestors, but close enough to study the various elements that made up the crowd. It was like strolling through a shopping mall of discontented citizenry.

  The next group he encountered was a throng of younger Hispanics, all donning brown berets. Again, Zach had to search his memory of high school history classes to pull up the meaning of the color-coded headgear.

  In the decade before the secession, debates regarding immigration policy, the border fence, and an explosion of the Latino birthrate rekindled the movement for Mexican-American civil rights. Old terms began to resurface, some of the more radical elements calling for the creation of a new nation often called Aztlan. This new country would encompass much of the territory annexed from Mexico after the Mexican-American war.

  University professors, state politicians, and numerous grassroots efforts had campaigned for the concept of Aztlan, calling for Texas, California, Arizona, and New Mexico to secede and began a separate country.

  Organizations such as the Brown Berets, Nation of Aztlan, and others gained national headlines during the heated immigration debates that gripped the United States shortly before the secession. Their strategy was simple and undeniable – Hispanics were having more babies than white people. In contrast, the Angelo population supported birth control and 1.8 children per household.

  At the time, one state official was quoted as saying, “California is going to be a Hispanic state. Anyone who doesn't like it should leave.”

  There was no need for protests, marches, civil unrest, or even the formation of a new political party. European whites were growing older and dying. The era of the Chicano would eventually arrive, driven by the birthrate of future voters. The momentum and energy that once supported Aztlan were severely deflated, or so mainstream America and Texas had thought.

  Zach was surprised to see hundreds of the people wearing the brown berets. Their signs and banners were professionally printed, not some last minute effort with magic markers and poster board. Of all the sub-groups making up the crowd, they seemed to be the most organized.

  The ranger kept moving toward the primary police barricade. As anticipated, the closer he got to the front of the protest, the more radical the marchers became.

  Scanning the crowd, Zach’s brain registered a familiar face. It was one of those fleeting images … a match from his memory … someone he just somehow knew he should pay attention to
.

  It took the Texan a few more passes before he identified the image. There, in the middle of the street, stood one of Chico’s bodyguards.

  The VIP room at the gentleman’s club had been extremely dark. He’d only caught a glimpse of the man, but Zach was almost certain it was the same fellow.

  There was something else suspicious about the guy.

  As Zach watched Chico’s henchman, it dawned that the heavily muscled gent was much older than any of the other protestors in the area. He was also better dressed and far, far more alert to his surroundings.

  Zach moved into the enclave afforded by a small dress shop when he noticed Chico’s friend was paying more attention to the surrounding crowd than any part of the protest. He was scanning the mob for someone – or something.

  Chico had disappeared after the incident at the gentleman’s club. Sam had speculated that the cartel ambassador had gone underground because he didn’t trust that Zach would keep his incriminating pictures to himself. Still, the two rangers had monitored Chico’s usual haunts – all to no avail.

  Now, here in the capital, right in the middle of the largest protest on record since the Vietnam War, there was one of Chico’s bodyguards. Why?

  About then, the ranger noticed Mr. No-neck’s attention was focused across the street. Zach followed his gaze and spotted Chico’s second security man.

  Now the Texan was certain. He’d busted #2 on a weapons charge.

  “What in the hell are you up to?” Zach whispered. “Why are you here?”

  The answer came a few minutes later.

  Reaching inside of his jacket pocket, one of the bodyguards retrieved a glass bottle, complete with a white length of cloth protruding from the top. Zach knew immediately what it was.

  The ranger pulled his .45 just as Mr. No-neck flicked a cigarette lighter. As the bodyguard reared to throw the Molotov cocktail, Zach aligned his pistol’s front post on the target’s chest.

  But he couldn’t fire.