by Joe Nobody
Rick picked that moment to chime in, “Besides, with the United States now doing business with the Copperheads, there’s no way to predict how Alpha will respond. We keep hearing that Texas is barely keeping their recovery on track. We can’t take the risk that they won’t join us, or worse yet, will side with Washington.”
Several of the gathered heads nodded in agreement, but not all.
“We must pull the Alliance in and get them committed,” May added. “The Copperheads did us a favor by butchering the villagers. If the leadership in Alpha starts losing people inside of Mexico, they will have no choice but to get involved.”
Chapter 7
Just because Nick wouldn’t provide battle tanks didn’t mean Bishop couldn’t up-armor the convoy’s security. He would implement the age-old, proven doctrine of speed-of-action, surprise, and overwhelming force. It was an unbeatable combination.
His first priority was speed, which required mobility. Most inexperienced security contingents made the critical mistake of thinking along the lines of defensive capabilities. Version two of the Mexican gravy train would contain potent, mobile, offensive firepower. If anybody messed with the Texans’ trucks, he would take the fight to them, not sit back and wait until the black hats blasted them to bits.
The mistake made by the first group of truckers had been a common one. Their protective elements were anchored to the very assets they were charged with defending. The Texan likened it to guarding a house by carrying it around on your back. Speed simply wasn’t an option with such a burden slowing you down.
His first line assets would be two dirt bikes orbiting and scouting ahead of the convoy. In addition to providing a speedy reaction, these off-road machines would deny any foe the element of surprise.
Next in the convoy’s entourage would be two 4x4 pickups, each truck’s bed lined with sandbags and a crew manning a belt-fed weapon. During the war in Afghanistan, U.S. troops took to calling such machines, “technicals.” If someone tried to set up an ambush along their route, Bishop could pull the pickups out of the line and take the fight to the bushwhackers. He prayed they would provide overwhelming firepower.
His final configuration involved attaching long-range firepower on top of the semi-trailers. Kevin, along with a deputy who was a former sniper, would make the trip riding on top of the second and eighth units, surrounded by sandbags, and carrying enough ammo to hold off a brigade.
Once he’d set up the convoy’s offensive capabilities, his next task was to train the truck drivers.
“Don’t stop if we’re ambushed. Always, always push through the kill zone. If the road is blocked, go around. If you can’t bypass the obstacle, then and only then you should back out. Never get stalled right where the enemy wants you to be. You’re better off running the open road on your own than sitting fat and stupid in the attackers’ crosshairs.”
For three days, he trained them in the desert north of Amistad, running countless drills and wasting a ton of diesel fuel.
Nick provided military grade, handheld radios. A tech from Fort Hood had given each member a crash course in the operation and usage. If the highwaymen were expecting to follow CB traffic as a tool to track the convoy, they were going to be disappointed.
“Stay off the radio unless you see a threat. Listen; don’t talk. Don’t bunch up – keep good spacing.”
On and on, droned the drills and exercises. Each day ended with classroom debriefings, followed by intense sessions of questions, answers, and suggestions. Bishop was pleased with the general attitude and cooperation of the drivers, but far from surprised. They all recognized the dangers involved, and they all hoped to live through the experience.
Finally, just 20 days after Diana had agreed to provide the replacement convoy, they were ready to go.
“Be in your cabs and ready to roll an hour before dawn,” Bishop instructed the gathered men.
They crossed the dam an hour behind schedule, last minute issues causing the delay.
One of the 18-wheelers wouldn’t start, a radio carelessly left on overnight having drained the battery. Two of Nick’s men had gotten lost in the pre-dawn light and were late arriving at the departure point.
Bishop wasn’t nearly as upset as his team anticipated. “Shit happens,” he told Butter. “These drivers aren’t military, and we put this whole thing together in a matter of days. I thought we’d be lucky if we left before the sun came up.”
As the long line of pickups and over-the-road semis crossed the bridge, every pair of eyes was fixed on the string of burned out hulks that still lined the roadway. While crews from Del Rio had worked to clear a path along the road, they hadn’t managed to remove any of the wrecks. In a way, Bishop was glad everyone was seeing the carnage. The ambush site served as an excellent reminder that they were entering what was essentially a war zone, and every last man had better be on top of his game if he were going to survive.
In reality, the Texan didn’t expect any trouble on the trip south. Whoever had attacked the convoy had waited until the truckers were in Alliance territory with trailers full of goods. Terri had been right in thinking the scrawled message, “SET THEM FREE,” indicated a political motivation for the attack. What other possible explanation could there be for intentionally burning several dozen tons of food?
Still, the Texan hadn’t survived this long by letting down his guard. As the convoy rolled south, he used the wide-open spaces and lack of population to squeeze in more training for his security detail and to keep everyone alert.
Butter was on one of the motorcycles, the big guy having considerable off-road experience using the 2-wheeled machines to round up strays during his youth on the ranch. One of Sheriff Watt’s deputies, a man named Cord, was on the other bike.
“Butter, check out that rise to the east,” Bishop ordered over the radio, watching to see how well his defensive scheme was going to work in real life.
A small rooster tail of dust rose in the distance, a signal that Butter had changed direction and was accelerating toward the objective. Just as they had drilled, the second bike followed suit, a small speck of black crossing the arid, Mexican landscape as Cord played the role of wingman.
“The two motorcycles must always stay within visual contact of each other,” he had ordered a few days ago. No one goes wandering off alone. You are vulnerable sitting on those bikes. Stay close, and watch each other’s back.” It was gratifying to see his guys were taking those instructions seriously.
“Nothing but rocks and sand out here, boss,” Butter reported a minute later. “Heading back to scout the road.”
They traveled three hours without incident and were now starting to see foothills in the distance. Bishop called a halt to refuel the bikes and trucks when they reached an area that was flat with little vegetation. He was pleased to see the truckers circle the wagons, just like they had drilled back in Texas.
Terri, welcoming the chance to stretch her legs, noted her husband’s eyes never left their surroundings. “Expecting trouble?” she inquired.
“No, not really. I don’t believe anyone will bother us on the way in. If they approach us, it will be on the way home.”
“I have to use the facilities,” she announced, eyeing the surrounding terrain and looking for a secluded spot.
Bishop nodded toward the area beside the pickup. “Open the door and you would have some privacy at least.” Then without waiting for her agreement, called out, “Butter! Miss Terri has to relieve herself. Make sure she is undisturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” came the big kid’s response.
“Boys. Humph,” Terri moaned, moving toward the far side of the truck.
“Don’t worry, Miss Terri. I won’t look, and I guarantee no one will bother you,” Butter promised, thinking the lady’s displeasure was aimed at him.
Twenty minutes later, the motorbikes were zooming ahead while the truckers were climbing back into their cabs. Bishop and Terri, in the command truck, stayed put alongside the road
while the long line of semis began pulling away into the mid-day sun.
Scanning the map, Terri calculated, “About four or five more hours if my numbers are accurate.”
“Sounds about right. The next 100 miles are the worst of it. We’ll be driving through hilly ground according to the satellite maps Nick provided. If I were a highwayman, that’s where I’d earn my keep.”
As soon as the last truck had joined the column, Bishop pulled out and accelerated toward the front of the convoy, studying each rig as it passed. “Number 14, back off a little … you’re tailgating,” the Texan instructed into the radio.
“You got it boss,” sounded the friendly trucker’s voice. “I’ll pay more attention.”
Thirty minutes later, the terrain indeed began to rise and fall, the highway snaking left and right to avoid the higher elevations. Their progress slowed, partly due to the winding pavement, mostly because of the unavoidable grades in the road.
“Go to formation B,” Bishop ordered.
The motorcycles were nearly worthless here, unable to manage the steeper hills on both sides of the pavement and forced to run on the road. Two of the pickups took the lead now, the bikes falling back to a secondary position.
It was less than 10 minutes later when the lead scout transmitted, “Movement!”
Just like they’d practiced, all of the trucks instantly dropped their speed but maintained their spacing. The entire convoy moved to the center stripe of pavement so the nimbler pickups and motorbikes could pass on either side at will.
“Talk to me,” Bishop said into the mic.
“I’ve got a small, dismounted party alongside the road at the top of the next grade. Number unknown. They’ve laid some sort of barricade across both lanes. Their composition unknown. Grim is dismounting to approach on foot to get a better view.”
“Butter, Cord, reinforce. Units three and four, to the front. I’m on my way.”
After exchanging troubled looks with his wife, Bishop floored their truck and began zipping around the barely-crawling line of semis. Less than two minutes later, they were running out in front of the convoy, quickly gaining on the two motorcycles.
“We are too far north for this to be the checkpoint McCarthy warned us about,” Terri said.
“Agreed. This is something different.”
“Contact,” Grim snarled from the scout truck. “Somebody just shot at us and missed.”
“Convoy, circle the wagons. Units three and four, go hot and don’t let anybody near those semis,” Bishop ordered.
Behind him, the drivers began steering their rigs into a new formation. Going four abreast on the two-lane road as they rolled to a stop, the intent was to at least protect some of the inner trucks with those outside units forming a wall. The pickups would orbit; the snipers became lookouts as well as being able to project power.
A minute later, Bishop was skidding to a halt alongside the scout truck and the two bikes. Grim was already another 50 meters up the road, using a small outcropping for cover and studying the roadblock through his optic. “Butter, you’re with me,” the Texan barked. “Might just be some locals who don’t like strangers. Terri and Cord, stay here and guard our wheels.”
“I saw them scramble across the road up there,” Grim reported as Butter and Bishop joined the old soldier. “I was just telling my driver to slow down when I saw a muzzle flash, and then the bullet sparked off the pavement.”
“Only one shot?” Bishop asked, pulling a large pair of binoculars to his eyes.
“That’s all I saw, boss.”
Bishop scanned the area ahead, finding a large log lying across both lanes of the road. There weren’t any vehicles or people visible, just the big log and a bunch of rocks. He keyed his mic, “Kevin, you got anything moving back by the trucks?”
“No movement, sir. I’ve got 300 meters of open terrain on all sides, and nothing is moving.”
“Stay frosty. I want to know if a jackrabbit scratches his ass.”
With a slight chuckle, Kevin came back with a prompt, “Yes, sir.”
Bishop visualized Kevin’s perch on top of one of the semi-trailers, the kid’s long-range rifle and huge optic sweeping the countryside and looking for work. He quickly made the decision that the activity to their front wasn’t a diversion intended to draw them out while a larger force attacked the convoy. “Let’s go take a look,” he announced to his two trusted team members. “Grim, cut 100 meters off the road to the east, Butter, take the West. I’ll give you five minutes, and then I’m going to walk right up there and see what they want.”
“You sure about that, boss?” Grim questioned. “These guys might be a little trigger happy.”
“I don’t think so,” the Texan replied. “When Terri and I were bugging out from Houston, we ran into a small town that had set up roadblocks to protect their people. This might be the same thing.”
“You’re in command,” the older warrior replied, shaking his head in doubt.
Bishop waited the prescribed five minutes, giving his people time to approach the blockade from the flanks. Taking a deep breath, he stood and began walking toward the roadblock.
Just under 100 meters from the barricade, a shot rang out. The bullet snapped overhead, the sonic boom of the round telling Bishop that either the rifleman had a horrible aim, or a cautionary bullet had just been fired.
Grim had the same inclination. “A warning?” the ex-contractor’s voice inquired over the airwaves.
“Either that or they need a little range time,” Bishop transmitted.
Bishop took a knee alongside the road, ready to roll off into the drainage ditch if more lead came his way. “What do you want?” he shouted at the men hiding in the rocks ahead.
The Spanish words that floated across the desert were rushed and beyond Bishop’s understanding of the foreign tongue. “Habla Inglish?” he yelled back.
“Drop gun. Walk here,” the voice responded in broken English.
“Sorry, can’t do that,” Bishop shouted back.
“You must pay a toll! A toll to pass.”
“Nada!” Bishop yelled back. “Ain’t happening, Señor!”
Again, the report of a rifle shot ripped through the air. This time, the bullet dropped a little closer. Bishop held his ground.
“We’ve got four, maybe five hostiles in the rocks along both sides of the road,” Grim announced. I think only one of them has a rifle. I see one pitchfork; another guy is carrying what looks like a homemade spear. Orders?”
Without moving his head, Bishop keyed the mic. “Grim, keep their head down. Butter, roll them up. I’m tiring of this little game. These guys are just highwaymen and not very good ones at that. Take them alive if possible.”
“Roger that,” Grim answered. “Going hot.”
From just east of the roadblock, Grim’s weapon opened up, spraying the surrounding rocks with short bursts of fire. As Bishop was rolling into the ditch, he spotted Butter surge from the bushes and charge the ambushers.
Grim burst out of the rocks just then, his carbine spitting fire as he hit the thugs from the opposite side. Several panicked voices started begging in Spanish. A second later, Bishop spied several sets of arms rise in surrender after dropping their weapons.
While Grim ordered his new captives to move away from their abandoned rifles, Bishop and Butter swept the area looking for additional adversaries. None were found.
“Search them, Butter. You never know when somebody might get brave and act stupid.”
As the kid approached the group of terrified men, Bishop finally took a moment to study the captives. He wasn’t impressed.
They were a ragtag lot at best, tattered clothing, extremely thin, and looked like they could all benefit from a shower at the YMCA. The Texan noted the mismatched boots on the largest man in the group, as well as the odd assortment of weapons lying on the ground. Two of the prisoners were actually barefoot.
When Butter approached to search the bandits’ leade
r, the man pulled a large knife and dropped into a combat crouch, apparently ready to fight.
Grim’s weapon was up in a flash, but Butter held up his hand and stopped his friend from cutting the aggressive fellow in half.
Tossing his weapon to Bishop, Butter pulled his own blade and flexed his massive arms while executing one of the most bone-chilling growls the Texan had ever heard. The message was clear, “Come on, little man. I love a knife fight.”
Seeing the cords and sinew rippling through the towering giant’s frame, the prisoner had a change of heart and immediately dropped his own blade while his hands shot skyward.
“He’s smarter than he looks,” Grim chuckled as Butter stepped closer to finish examining the now demure captive.
When he was within reach, Butter’s huge fist slashed through the air. The strike landed on the former knife-fighter’s temple, delivering so much force that the unfortunate target was physically lifted off the ground. Bishop winced as the man landed and rolled across the sand, immediately wondering if the guy would ever eat solid food again.
“Pull a knife on me, you little bitch, and I’ll rip your head off,” the big kid hissed in a rare show of anger.
“Ouch,” Bishop grunted, knowing the strike would hurt for days and trying to decide if Butter had really been trying to decapitate the prisoner.
“Butter? Damn, son. I’m right proud to serve with you, boy,” Grim laughed. “I think you’re finally figuring it out, kid.”
“I don’t like sneaky people, sir. Makes me mad,” Butter answered, his voice now back to its normal, cordial tone.
Shaking his head, Bishop knew they needed to get back to business. “Move them up to the road, Butter. Make those two carry their unconscious friend. Grim, you sweep the area. I’m going to call up the convoy.”
