Liberty's Hammer

by Reed Hill

  “Sí, sí – muchas gracías. Lo haré, no problemo, senór.” The old man hastily seized the money, and nodded profusely.

  “Very good,” he looked kindly on the old man. “I know you’ll do it.” Raúl spun away from the bum and jumped in the rusty, late 70s Dodge powerwagon firing it up and tearing down the alley.

  Raúl couldn’t believe that the jefes grandes, big bosses, had another job for him. They don’t call me – El Chacal, The Jackal – for almost a year, and now it was two jobs in twenty-four hours. Raúl looked down at his simple watch and pressed the accelerator to the floor as he dodged a couple of rufíanes pendejos, who were beating on each in the middle of the street. He sped through the barrio in Edgewood.

  He had a splitting headache. He was also sure he had been spotted by some dumb gringo as he completed the early morning job out at the airport while making his escape. He needed to be lying low in that rancid basement safe house for at least forty-eight hours, not going out for another job in the same damn part of the country. These guys had gone loco. But, the bosses paid in silver coin at $100,000 or five kilos in crystal, whatever El Chacal wanted. This was going to cost them ten kilo. If he was willing to wait, that would be worth a million dollars in about a month’s time.

  Raúl slowed down to the speed limit, when he saw a cop car with its cherries lit coming at him. Don’t be an idiota and get busted for speeding. He smiled as he re-read the text message and turned onto Castroville Road.

  A million bucks after a month’s distribution came in – it was going to be a good day.

  *****

  Homeland Special Investigations – Special Response Team – Bravo Team

  Laredo, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 10:55 a.m.

  Darren Schmidt looked over his MP-5 and made sure he was secure. He had taken extra care in getting ready after driving past the terrible landscape that Laredo was becoming. More pillars of smoke littered the horizon as they skirted the north of downtown on the way to their new target. There were countless burned-out shells of cars, and many scores of homes and businesses were on fire, as countless people were running wild in the streets. Random gunfire could be heard just about every block on which they meandered through Laredo. It was a truly depressing sight.

  He checked the six spare mags for the SMG and four spares he had for his .40 S&W Sig P226 sidearm, but hoped he didn’t need to use them. He looked for the thumbs up from his guys, “You all ready?” He glanced at the navi-computer in the dash, “According to Brackin’s coordinates, we should be there in less than a minute.” Schmidt checked the side mirror and he could see the front of the black SWAT van close behind them. He wasn’t sure how much good the six-member Laredo SWAT team was going to be. A couple of them looked a little chunky, but maybe they could help keep the gunfire off his guys if nothing else.

  When Schmidt had gone to meet Lieutenant Brackin at the makeshift HQ – a single-wide trailer in the parking lot of the mall – Brackin had re-directed Schmidt to the most prominent problem that they were facing: the water treatment facility. El Pico Water Treatment Center supplied ninety-five percent of the water for the city and surrounding thirty mile radius, and the insurgents had taken the facility in the early morning hours. There had been no communication with the insurgents, and no had been demands made. What Brackin did know was that a motivated enemy could knock out the water to nearly the whole city with a few well-placed charges. Even more gruesome scenarios were also very possible with water-borne virus releases and all kinds of unimaginable situations they had been briefed about over the years in biological and biochemical warfare training. The images of space-suited criminals dumping horrific substances into the water raced through Schmidt’s mind, and he tried to push them out and focus.

  They had received a tip from a citizen earlier in the morning about the Water Treatment Plant, and the news really had come as no surprise to Brackin. Like in most small cities and towns in the heartland of America, the security of the facility was a complete joke. The plant was on the northwest edge of the city adjacent to a wide bend in the Rio Grande, and of course, it rarely had any visitors. Most days, there were only a couple of rent-a-cops with a small caliber sidearm, pepper spray and a radio, there mostly for appearance. They had the typical inexpensive veneer of security that most municipalities were able or willing to afford.

  Schmidt and his guys had been speeding along nicely without interference when the sporadic light gunfire, obviously pistols, had turned into more serious shooting. That was a signal they were getting close. From the tangs of the bullets on the DAP’s armor plating, they were clearly getting more quite a bit more rifle fire. As they approached the main gate, Schmidt saw that the insurgents had done quite a bit to bolster the meager defenses of the main entrance, piling up multiple cars on both avenues of the grass median. At the center of the gate complex stood a small wooden building which housed the guard checkpoint – it was only about the size of a toll booth, probably only meant to keep the weather off a single guard.

  “Get ready,” Schmidt turned to his men, “we’re going in.” He could see the fear in the eyes of a couple of the younger agents, but on the whole, the men fixed their aspects to the tough task at hand. “Keep your heads and focus. We can do this. It’s what we train for.”

  The first few bullets deflected with a metallic clank off the prow of the DAP, as the armored truck sped toward the main gate. Schmidt could see a gunman in a dark leather jacket with a blue bandana tied around his forehead shooting a rifle from the front of the central shack, the flash of rounds accompanied by the tat-tat coming from the rising gun. More muzzle flashes came from the right and the left, in the small stands of pine and cedar trees atop mulched berms that flanked the divided lanes of the entrance, but they bounced harmlessly off the thick steel of the DAP.

  A couple of bullets deflected off the one and half inch thick lexan-glass windshield, leaving opaque scuffs, and Schmidt could see the gate proper come into view. It was a thick gauge of chain link on a steel frame with only a couple of vertical supporting rods. Schmidt could see the small rubber wheels at both ends, which indicated it rolled back and forth for closure, and would probably have two or three anchor points into the steel beam near the central guard shack. A super-duty pickup could probably plow through the gate, so Schmidt wasn’t worried as the eighteen tons of steel-plated truck sped toward it. “Go ahead and push on through it, at the linkage point on the right,” he said stoically to Ortega, who nodded and pressed the gas pedal.

  They closed to within fifty yards, when a man in red and black tiger-striped fatigues appeared out from behind the guard shack holding a very large rifle. The thug in the black leather jacket shooting the AK-47 in front of the building shuffled to his right, seeing the weapon, turned and ran to his comrades shooting from the trees of the raised berm. When the man raised the weapon to a position on top of his shoulder, Schmidt knew it wasn’t an ordinary battle rifle – this was some kind of RPG, or rocket propelled grenade. When Schmidt saw the five-foot olive drab tube push the man backward and billow a cloud of white smoke behind him, he shouted, “Get down!” The weapon looked like a M137-AT3 anti-tank missile or perhaps a Chinese or Russian equivalent he had seen in Iraq. “Get down, now!”

  The rocket closed on them in under one second, and Schmidt caught only a momentary glimpse of the racing projectile as he hit the deck of the DAP. He felt his weight land on Ortega who had also dived from the driver’s seat. At that moment, Schmidt’s orientation spiraled like he was in a carnival ride as he felt the massive force of a deafening explosion. His mind ran to that picture of Jenna holding little Maddy on her lap. I’m never going to see your faces again.

  Darren Schmidt’s world went black.

  Silence.

  *****

  Fredericksburg, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 10:55 pm

  Danny Haslett blew out a lungful of cigarette smoke, snatched the bouquet of flowers from his seat and exited his truck, striding toward the entrance of Shad
y Oaks Retirement Village. As he flicked the cigarette butt to the curb and passed through the glass doors, he smoothed his orange hair and gave his goatee a tug to straighten it, and tucking his t-shirt into his dirty jeans. There wasn’t anyone at the welcome desk, so he went ahead and signed in on the clipboard using the shackled pen and proceeded down the right hand side hallway.

  He counted the numbers written in white on black plastic signs above the doorways and pushed his way into Room 112. A smell hit him. There was a floral cast to the air but also a distinct odor of urine and medicine under the surface. Danny knocked on the door and walked in past the tiny kitchenette, “Hey, mama, are you up and around?”

  The main room had a homey feel with her needlework and landscape prints on the wall, but from the medical gadgets and devices stowed in the corners, there was no getting around the fact that it was still a kind of a hospital room. The TV in the corner droned on showing some ridiculous talk show.

  He really wished he could afford to have her in a nicer home, but this place devoured every dollar that he and his sister contributed each month and worked with her Social Security and Medicare to make all the money stuff work out. It was a tough deal to work, since it seemed like all the government health care setups nowadays pretty much expected the old folks to die off quick and not drain the system dry. She had already had a surgery request denied earlier in the year by the damn County Surgical Commission or whatever the hell it was. Sons of bitches didn’t give a hoot about how folks actually lived anymore. The people were just a number in the system nowadays. The Sludge Report had a story marked as ‘dreck’, which was the highest level, or lowest level, or whatever, that showed government administrators getting rich off the health care system the way it was setup now, while doctors were going out of business.

  “I’m in the bedroom,” his mama’s voice was tinny and sounded a bit scratchy. “I’m throwing on my robe. Gimme a second, honey.”

  Danny was the youngest of five children, and he wondered how often his sorry-assed brothers made it over. He knew that his sister came occasionally, but the boys he wasn’t too sure about. She had lived a hard life, that was certain, with Daddy being such a hard drinker. Haslett had seen the back of his hand too many times, and he had that in common with mama. The Lord had seen her through a lot of grief over the years, but he wondered if she had any regrets.

  “It’s all right,” Danny scanned the room. “You take your time.” Not much had changed from when he was here last. Was that a new print on the wall?

  Her tiny, hunched over form appeared in the doorway and she tottered toward Danny in her pink robe and white bunny slippers. “Give me some sugar now.” She held up her arms for a hug and he came closer giving her a gentle squeeze. My Lord, she feels frail.

  “So how you been doing lately, mama?”

  “Oh,” she sighed, “fair to middling I suppose.” She wandered over to the big recliner and plopped her body down into it. She seemed miniscule in the stuffed, green chair, older than her seventy years. Her hand slipped to the television remote and clicked the sound to mute the TV. She seemed good today, he thought. Some days were better than others. “Feel pretty good today, all things considered.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing,” Danny set himself down on the green and blue plaid couch and sank down low from its worn undercarriage. “I’ll always thank God for the good days.”

  “Are those for me?” his mama glanced at the flowers in his hands.

  “Surely are,” Danny got up and leaned in to present them to her over the back of his arm, like he was passing the plate in church.

  “Well aren’t you sweet, sugar,” she winked at her youngest giving a cloying smile and smelling the bouquet. “My, aren’t these beautiful.”

  “I thought you’d like them,” Danny looked at her sweet face. She looked tired. “You doing okay?”

  “Aw, yeah,” she waved her hand at him, “I just haven’t slept well the last few nights. Damn fireworks kept me up all night. I’ll get caught up in a day or two. I was reading in Jonah just this morning. You know, he probably didn’t get a lick of sleep in the belly of that whale. I expect I can get by.”

  “Your belly feels all right though?”

  “Oh, it’s been hurting a bit,” she shifted in the wide chair, and put the flowers on the little table next to her but struggled to reach it as it slightly behind her. “Lord willing, it’ll pass.”

  Danny jumped up, “Let me put those in a jar for you.” He took the flowers from her straining hand. “Where will I find a vase or something?”

  She pondered a moment with a finger raised to her lips, “Well, why don’t you use one of the big Mason jars in the kitchen.”

  “All right,” he walked to the tiny kitchen. “Where in here would I find that?”

  “It’s above the sink with the other glasses.”

  Danny grabbed one of the jars from the shelf and filled it half way with water from the tap, then took the flowers from the wrapping paper and baptized them in the water. They spread out nicely with just a little shake and made a colorful display as he placed them down on the table next to the TV. “You’ll be able to see them a lot easier over here.”

  “No,” she said curtly. “I want them over here next to me so I can smell them.” She tapped the edge of the small table that was a bit behind her.

  “All right,” he said with a smile. “You win.” He placed the jar of flowers on the table and sat back down on the low, dingy couch. “You know me, mama. I ain’t been a very good Christian. I done some things lately I ain’t proud of.”

  “You know we’ve all done things we ain’t proud of Danny,” she allowed a little smile to come through the wrinkles. “You just keep trying. Never give up on the Lord, because he’s never gonna give up on you.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Was she? What did God care about me? Haslett had a hard time believing that anyone really cared about anybody else these days. Seemed to him that most folks had walked away from God, so God just left them to their own devices. Haslett thought about life in the big cities – damn cesspools, all of them. If God really cared about people anymore, Haslett wasn’t seeing it.

  “Your sister came by on Sunday,” she reclined her chair back and seemed to be looking at the ceiling, slowly blinking. “Yep she came by after church, and brought me communion.”

  “Is that right? What’s she up to lately.”

  His mama took a breath and started to answer. Danny loved his mama, but he had to confess that this place depressed him. You do all that living raising kids and putting up with a drinker only in order to wind up in a place like this. But it wasn’t all bad. The staff had things for residents to do and they got decent food every day, but there wasn’t any denying it wasn’t much different than a prison. I sure ain’t going out of this world like this, so slow, just dying a little, one day at a time in a godforsaken place like this.

  Chapter 9

  Homeland Special Investigations – Special Response Team – Bravo Team

  Laredo, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 10:57 a.m.

  Sparks of light began to intrude on the darkness of Schmidt’s vision. He couldn’t hear anything except the intense, high-pitched ringing, as he felt the shaking from his tactical vest. He could make out the broad face of one of the Laredo SWAT guys, who shook him and mimed something to him with very animated facial expressions. He felt a smack on the side of his helmet and a gloved hand grabbing his face. Throbs of pain pulsed with his racing heartbeat as his head moved side to side.

  “Hey! Hey, buddy,” the SWAT officer mouthed toward Schmidt who heard the words severely muffled, despite the shouting face he saw in front of him. “Get up! Get up! We need to get outta here, now!”

  Schmidt’s eyes swirled as he struggled to get an elbow underneath his torso and prop himself up. Schmidt thought he could hear the pop of lady finger firecrackers like the ones he used at his daughter’s birthday party a few years back. He felt his body fall forward and
he managed to get his palms down on what felt like steel. The cold metallic floor was slick and his hand slid out from under him, sending him back to the deck.

  Schmidt glanced at the red liquid that coated his palm and arm as he was lifted up by his chest rig, “Come on! Help me here, pal. We gotta get the hell out of here!” The pudgy SWAT officer screamed in his ear as he slapped an M-16 in Schmidt’s hands and smacked the side of his helmet. “Let’s go! You with me? We’re sitting ducks in here.”

  Schmidt heard the muted tings and tangs of gunfire on metal as he low crawled after the SWAT officer toward the rear of the DAP. He blinked and tried to right himself in the smoky DAP’s interior. It was then that he noticed that he was crawling on the ceiling of the huge armored truck and his eyes spun for a moment. The DAP was upside down. He felt a tap on his helmet as his hands and knees hit mushy softness rather than steel, “Come on. They’re closing in on us.”

  Suddenly a burst of daylight struck his face. He heard the creak of the large hinges of the DAP’s rear exit. The SWAT officer’s round outline silhouetted against the bright sunlight, and he crawled toward him. A spark jumped from the doorway, and the officer raised his M-16 and fired off a three round burst. Schmidt got to his knees and turned to back out of the DAP over the lip of the door frame, facing the interior. Through the smoky haze he could see the bodies of his men as they lay on the roof of the DAP. Pools of crimson were starting to gather at the corners of the roofline and doorframe. He could barely make out the lifeless body of Ortega at the front of the vehicle where his head and shoulders were separated from his legs. Nothing but a few strands of sinew and slim bone fragments held him together.

  Schmidt felt a hand on his shoulder pulling him upright, when two more sparks of gunfire pinged next to him. He stood and felt for his rifle and found its pistol grip. The DAP was indeed upside down and on fire around a huge hole in the undercarriage beneath the front portion of the truck. Smoke was rolling upwards toward the blue sky as the SWAT officer pulled him down, taking cover behind the overturned APC, “We need to find some cover!” He could see the man’s name label was embroidered “D. Aguado” in small, silver block lettering.