The Western Front: Parts 1-3 Part 21

Kate buried her feet in the sand and looked away. "Things are going to get bad, aren't they?"

"Yeah, they are."

"But there's something more."

"Yeah, there's something more."

"Then I can accept that."

A note from the author: I hope you enjoyed the first book in the series; if you did, please leave a review on Amazon and spread the word; it would be greatly appreciated. The sequel to The Western Front, Kratocracy, is also available on Amazon. I've included an excerpt from the book on the following pages.

Regards, -Archer Garrett KRATOCRACY.

Kratocracy (Kra-toc-ra-cy) [kruh-tok-ruh-see] (Origin: Greek, krateros, strong) (noun, plural Kra-toc-ra-cies) (similar: Kratocrat noun; Kratocratic adjective): Government by those who are strong enough to seize power through force or cunning. (Montague.)

One.

The four grey SUVs cautiously approached the outskirts of Viejo Guerrero, known to the gringos as Old Warrior City. The vehicles were dented and dusted thoroughly, with the occasional rusted bullet hole in a door or fender; the windshields were cracked and caked with dirt and grime in the areas beyond the reach of the dry-rotted wiper blades.

The cartel soldados in the vehicles were anxious to make the delivery, but were fearful of what may lie between them and Falcon Lake. They gripped their rifles tightly as they peered out the windows of the vehicles at the abandoned structures and barren landscape. Dread was a new emotion for many of the halcones and sicarios; they were more accustomed to inflicting terror than being gripped by it.

The ones they feared were surrounded by myth and mystique; most reasoned the source to be gringo irregulars, but some of the more superst.i.tious among them told stories around campfires about the spirits that roamed the borderlands. These spirits, they would say in hushed voices, were angered by the choices of those in their ancient bloodline; the drug trade was destroying the delicate borderland, and the spirits were angry.

Who could blame these men for their superst.i.tions? The borderlands were a place steeped in centuries of bloodshed and wars, and nearly every man had a tale of a strange encounter that either they, or someone they dearly trusted had experienced. Now there was incessant talk of the mysterious riders that were haunting the soldiers of the cartels.

They referred to them as the jinetes fantasma, the phantom hors.e.m.e.n. Entire parties of soldados had disappeared without a trace, never to be heard from again; the few men that had escaped certain death told fantastical tales of the dark riders. The riders would only materialize between dusk and dawn because they feared the light; they would appear from seemingly nowhere, abduct the narco scouts and overwhelm the defenseless encampment. The cartels had sent teams of hardened, experienced men to the borderlands for the sole purpose of finding and eliminating the source of the attacks, but to date, none had been heard from again.

If any place invited the talk of spirits and times long forgotten, Viejo Guerrero was it. Founded in 1750 as a Spanish colonial town, more than twenty years before the American Revolution, it was the capital of one of the many republics, including the Republic of Texas, that rebelled against the subversive centralization of Mexico and the dissolution of the Mexican const.i.tution by the Santa Anna government.

Journal remnants from an expedition in the nineteenth century observed that, "Guerrero is a fine looking and well-constructed town. The houses are built of a kind of marble or stone, with flat roofs, surrounded by a wall. The streets and public squares (of which there are two) are well laid off, and the whole place presents an appearance of elegance and neatness. There is one cathedral in the place and several large public buildings. The inhabitants have fine gardens and throughout the place there are numerous groves of orange trees that give it a most luxuriant and smiling appearance."

Viejo Guerrero, like many other towns and villages in the area, had been abandoned when the Falcon Dam was constructed on the Rio Grande; a new city was built nearly twenty miles to the southeast on higher ground, not far from the dam. Viejo Guerrero was left to its fate, to be consumed by the rising waters of Falcon Lake. The lake's waters had advanced into and receded from the ghost town numerous times since the dam's construction; the current water level left a little more than half of the city back on dry land.

As twilight yielded to dusk, the sky was painted with oranges and yellows; the thin, wispy cirrus clouds reflected an array of colors, from bright purple to dull gray. The cool, inviting temperature and the gentle breeze made a picturesque sky even more perfect. The men in the SUVs would have greatly preferred to be tending a warm fire back at camp and trading tall stories as the last vestiges of the day disappeared, rather than meeting the mules in these forgotten ruins, far from any signs of civilization.

The road narrowed for a period, as the mesquite, huisache and wild olives crowded the ruins around them. The hairs on the soldados' necks stood on end as the shrill screams of a herd of javelinas could be heard somewhere in the tall shadows of the distance. After several hundred feet of tense silence, the restrictive thicket relented to the dusty, open trail that lay beyond.

As they made a final turn, they could see the aluminum boats and their operators at the water's edge, beyond the open plaza. The four drug mules wore long serapes and hoods over their heads; they preferred to remain as anonymous as possible on nights like these; each of the mules had dim oil lanterns that served as a beacon for the SUVs. The eerie scene made some of the men rather uneasy. The stone ruins of a centuries-old village with dark, ghoulish figures on the edge of a black water lake conjured images of Charon towering over the banks of the River Acheron, as he waited to the ferry d.a.m.ned souls across to their eternity. All they needed now was an obolus in their mouth to pay the toll, they gloomily thought to themselves.

The darkness was in full effect as they rounded the plaza, now merely several hundred feet from the figures and the rendezvous point. One by one, the cloaked mules extinguished their lanterns and faded into the darkness around them. The vehicles slowed as the men inside were perplexed by the odd behavior from their contacts; they peered into the darkness, but the cloaked men were gone.

Reese, Barrett and the two rangers from Houston stood waiting by the water, just east of the plaza; the bodies of the previous owners rested in the bottom of the boats beside them. Their lanterns were turned down low so that they would be noticed by the cartel soldados, but little else could be discerned; the dull glow from the flames danced on the dark waters behind them as gentle waves lapped the sh.o.r.e.

Barrett leaned over to Reese and whispered, "Sure hope they don't get spooked and shoot on sight."

"We'll probably be fine."

"Probably?"

Reese smirked and replied, "Sorry, I forget you've been out here a while; seriously though, sometimes a sense of humor is all that gets you through the hard times, and we are due some hard times. Look, over there, we've got company."

Reese and his three teammates watched as the headlights illuminated the south edge of the plaza; they could hear the sounds of the distant vehicles' tires crunching along the loose cobblestone alley as they slowly approached. A frightened covey of quail could be heard scattering somewhere across the plaza as the SUVs approached.

The vehicles finally appeared from the depths of the alley, at the far corner of the plaza. The remnants of an old tower and several stone benches and fountains in the open square were all that separated Reese and his team from their prey. An M4 carbine hung from a single point sling underneath each of the men's serapes as they held their lanterns. They watched as the vehicles turned northeast and followed the perimeter of the plaza; before the SUVs were able to turn south and illuminate the four men, they quenched the flames and disappeared into the shadows. The men dropped the lanterns and pulled the night vision goggles that had been hidden under their hoods down over their eyes; they dashed through the darkness to several piles of stone rubble that dotted the sh.o.r.eline just west of the boats.

Holt and nearly a dozen other men slunk back into the shadows of the roofless stone ruins, as the headlights shined below them on the road, and illuminated the fine particulates of dust that hung heavy in the air. Viejo Guerrero was the perfect venue for an ambush; it had the cover, the ambience to unnerve the superst.i.tious among their quarry, and the bait to lull the others into complacency.

As he focused his attention on the approaching SUVs, the unexpected rushing sounds from the panicked covey of quails caused Holt's heart to flutter in his chest, as quails are quite apt to do. Adrenaline coursed through his veins for the moment he was uncertain of the source; his momentary fright had not gone unnoticed by the men around him as they grinned silently and continued to scan the plaza below. Holt sighed to himself and thought, I will surely hear about this later.

Holt and the other men in the ruins began to ease back into position from the deep recesses as the SUVs slowly pa.s.sed them without event. The dozen men under Holt's command were divided into three fire teams; in addition to two riflemen, each team had a grenadier and a man equipped with a squad automatic weapon, or SAW.

Holt and the fire teams watched from the various ruins around the plaza, as the vehicles advanced along the perimeter road to meet the drug mules by the sh.o.r.e. As the vehicles prepared to navigate the final turn around the north corner of the open square, the dim lanterns by the sh.o.r.e faded away; Holt slowly counted to five in his head and then whispered into the microphone, "Now."

As the grenadiers fired a volley of 40 mm grenades from their launchers, attached to the underside of their carbines, the SAW operators unleashed a deafening hailstorm of lead and fury on the four vehicles. One of the grenades sailed perfectly into an open rear window and landed in the pa.s.senger's lap; the soldados tried to dive from the vehicle, but it was too late. The windows of the vehicle blew outward simultaneously as the interior of the SUV was decimated; a small fire began to smolder in the back seat as the men in the rear vehicle stared on in shock.

A second grenade landed on another vehicle's hood as the blast shattered the front windshield, killing the driver and front pa.s.senger; the terrified amigo in the back seat rolled out onto the ground and plunged headlong into the darkness. Amazingly, the fleeing man was able to avoid the wall of lead from the SAWs that was battering the ground and sending plumes of dust into the air all around him.

"Let him go," Holt radioed, "I have plans for him; finish off the others."

Meanwhile, the remaining grenades exploded around the other vehicles, wrinkling sheet metal and sending shards of gla.s.s and debris into the faces of the stunned soldados. The SAWs ventilated the SUVs relentlessly as the soldiers with M4 carbines targeted any amigos that had survived the onslaught up to that point and tried to return fire. The men whooped like a Comanche war band as they fired at the narco soldados; their war cries only served to fan the flames of terror and confusion that consumed the amigos in the plaza below. Within several seconds of the start of the overwhelmingly violent ambush, it was over; only one soldado remained as he fled into the night.

Holt radioed again, "Send out the riders."

The terrified amigo tore blindly through the thick brush and shrubs that surrounded the plaza; he groaned as the th.o.r.n.y mesquite, blackbrush and huisache cut his arms and p.r.i.c.ked his hands. The poisonous thorns burned and throbbed as they broke off in his skin, but he did not care; all that mattered was to escape.

As he pushed through the edge of the thicket, he stumbled and fell headlong into the dusty alley beyond. A sharp pain shot through his body as his head smashed against a large stone block; he curled his body into a tight ball and cursed the ruins of this place as he writhed in pain. As he pushed himself up from the ground he staggered about momentarily, his head still dazed from the blow.

Clip, clop! Clip, clop! He lurched forward and nearly fell again as the sounds of the hooves could be heard somewhere behind him. He turned and dashed up the narrow dirt alley, searching in vain for somewhere to hide from the dark riders.

Clip, clop! Clip, clop! As he reached the intersection, he darted to the left and ran to the southwest, parallel with and several hundred feet from the sh.o.r.eline. The yips and barks of two distant coyotes echoed through the night air as they exchanged their nocturnal discourse. He fumbled at his side for his nickel plated revolver, but it was nowhere to be found.

Clip, clop! Clip, clop! The sound of the horse's hooves grew louder as the rider bore down on him. He could feel the rider's presence somewhere in the shadows; he knew at any moment, the ghoul would gun him down, or worse. The thickets began to crowd the alley on either side of him once again; he would dive back into the th.o.r.n.y underbrush and hide like a desert cottontail from his pursuers.

Clip, clop! Clip, clop! It felt as if the rider was on top of him now, this was his last chance. As he pa.s.sed through the second intersection and prepared to dive into the dense stand of huisache, his heart sank as he saw the rider. Everything was moving so quickly, it was hard for his mind to process; it had to be a second rider, because he was approaching from the other road. It mattered not how many there was at this point, they had him; he would fight them though, he would not go easy. He unsheathed his long cuchilla and prepared for the encounter.

The high pitched squeal of the horse was deafening in his ears and terrifying to his senses; he could feel its hot breath on his face as its nostrils pa.s.sed within inches of him. He slashed wildly at the beast, but his wrist was denied the motion as it connected painfully with a quick thrust from a steel-toed, flat-tipped, western boot. He shrieked in agony and gripped the throbbing hand with the other as the cuchilla clattered to the ground. The horse slung his head in the direction of the man as it flared its nostrils and snorted menacingly at him.

The rider had watched the soldado flee down the alley in shades of dull green, over the tops of the thickets from his high perch. He had seen the other rider swiftly approaching the amigo from behind. He had cut down the perpendicular alley and timed his approach perfectly so that he would collide with the man in the intersection.

He flipped his rifle around so that he was holding it by the barrel, as he met the terrified soldado in the dusty junction; as he effortlessly deflected the man's blind slice, he swung the rifle in a downward arc as a templar knight might swing a mace. The pointed end of the triangular collapsible stock connected with the side of the amigo's head, snapping it harshly to the side and sending him into a sidelong tumble. The hombre's head slammed against the ground with his jaw slack and eyes rolled far back in his head.

"Let's get him back to camp; Agent Byers will surely want a word with our friend, if he ever wakes up."

"Wait; do you hear that?" He motioned with his rifle as he held onto the reins with the other, "Go around the thicket; I'll meet you on the other side."

As the riders returned to the plaza with their quarries, several men from the unit were finishing the task of sinking the SUVs in the lake. They used the two vehicles that were still operable to tow the others into the lake, and then ferried each out into the dark waters with the four aluminum boats, until the depth was sufficient to completely cover the SUVs. Reese preferred to leave no trace of their a.s.saults; the mysterious disappearances only fueled their legend, but it also served more practical purposes. If the cartels did not know who their enemy was, they could not adapt. If they could not adapt, they would not survive.

It has been said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles; Reese had every intention of remaining unknown for as long as possible. He needed time to wound the cartels enough to convince the locals in the region that they could resist and win.

As the last of the vehicles disappeared beneath the surface of the lake, the men began to gather inside del Iglesia de Nuestra Senora del Refugio, the Church of Our Lady of Refuge, on the edge of the plaza. The church's architecture was distinctly that of a Spanish Mission; its origins could be traced back to the early years of the town, sometime in the eighteenth century.

The roof of the church had been restored years ago in an attempt to preserve the historical structure; aided by the arid climate, the timber rafters were still in respectable shape. The walls and columns of the iglesia, as well as the other ruins in the villa, were constructed without the use of any mortar; the stones were cut and shaped so that they would fit together perfectly; the fact that many of the structures still stood despite the decades of neglect was a testament to the artisans that labored here long ago. The men found the sanctuary austere but alluring as they stepped through the arched entrance; their usually hard demeanors were reduced to reverence and deference as they entered the anointed templo.

In the center of the open sanctuary, the men of the unit cl.u.s.tered around the small fire that crackled and popped, as it cast tall shadows that danced on the sandstone walls and arched columns. The confines of the iglesia would hide the glow of the fire that would otherwise be visible for miles on the open plains; poor light discipline in the borderlands was an open invitation for marauders or cartel scouts. After weeks under the stars, the church was a welcome enclave for the men; the warmth of a fire always seemed to improve morale.

Reese surveyed the group of men as they filtered into the church; they were a mixture of the best that Texas had to offer him. The men had already fallen into the practice of a.s.suming call signs to protect their ident.i.ties; nearly all of the men had taken their names from the fallen defenders of the Alamo Mission.

The group was eclectic and diverse; the three branches of the Texas military were represented the State Guardsmen from South Padre Island, Army National Guard and Air National Guard the latter two were jokingly referred to as the TANGs. There were the six SEALs that opted to stay and defend the island with the guardsmen, the two Texas Rangers that had followed Reese from Houston, and Alejandro, their interpreter and the key to gaining local support.

Reese glanced across the fire at Wash and Pagan, the rangers that never left his side in Houston, and who had insisted on following him to the border. They were aloof and cautious, and preferred to scout ahead of the party when they were on the plains, so that they could enjoy the solitude it offered. Though the others were still rather uncertain of them, Reese had seen their loyalty in action in the doomed city of Houston; he trusted them as much as any and was glad they had come. They were tall and sinewy, with long Texas drawls and quick pistol draws. Reese surmised that they would have fared just fine had they been born two hundred years prior; perhaps, he reasoned, they may have preferred it.

Reese glanced behind him as the men in the room erupted into applause; the two riders dropped the heavy boar in the dirt just outside the church.

"This is how you do Thanksgiving, boys. We downed several sows as well; they're back where we flushed this one out. We need a couple more to give us a hand getting them back and cleaning them; any volunteers?"

A small, windowless, stone structure beside the church had been selected as the site of the four fires needed to cook the javelinas. The entire plaza was filled with the sweet smell of the wild meat; the sentries on the roof of the church struggled to maintain their post as their mouths watered from the aroma that wafted up to them. A smiling soldier peeked in the church and shouted to the group of men inside, "It's ready; come and get it."

Reese replied, "Men, get your share of the feast and let's meet back in here before we eat; I have a few words I want to say first."

The aroma of the pig hung heavy in the church as the eager men filtered back in and found their place around the fire. As the last man took his place, Reese stood and spoke.

"Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, but we've been granted an opportunity to celebrate a day early. The world seems like it is dying around us, but we have so much to be thankful for. We've been out here three weeks without so much as a scratch. It's always harder in the beginning because you're still learning your horse and the men around you; trust me I know. For that, I am thankful.

We're riding some of the best horses I've ever had the pleasure of saddling," he turned and smiled at Alex, "you did well Alejandro, better than I ever imagined; we're only as good as the horses under us. For that, I am thankful.

Men, we're in a forgotten church that has weathered centuries in an abandoned villa that stood in defiance against the dictator, General Santa Anna himself. You've all taken your names from the rebels at the Alamo who resisted the same man; isn't that profound? Look around you; imagine the others that have sat in this same place just as we are, and resisted the evil of their day. I can't stand here and tell you that I believe it all to be coincidence."

He flashed a smile as he continued, "I'm not here to get preachy on you; Lord knows I'm not Reverend Byers."

The men grinned in response as they listened contently, their appet.i.tes nearly forgotten.

"But the fact is I'm an old soldier, and often old soldiers find faith, or maybe it's that faith finds them, I don't know. What you believe is your own business, but if you aren't a believing man, I ask you to do this; tonight when you're alone, it's dark and there's not a sound in the air but the wails of the chicharra grandes, just contemplate it for a moment. We've been lucky so far, but we're going to ride through the gates of h.e.l.l before this is over; we're going to need something greater than our sum to bring us back.

For now, let's celebrate another overwhelming victory, enjoy some good company and be thankful for our good fortunes."

The men applauded and cheered as they began their feast. Reese stood up, walked over to Barrett and whispered to him, "How's your Espanol?"

"Good enough, socio."

"Let's have a talk with our friend."

Two.

"Senator Engels' office, how may I direct your call?"

"Hi Becky it's Angela, office of the President. Is Senator Engels available?"

"Angela! The senator is available; could you hold for one second?"

"Sure."

Senator Engels was not quite the eldest statesman on The Hill, but he was the most powerful, at least behind closed doors. His public persona was reserved and almost timid in nature. He avoided press conferences and speeches if at all possible; rarely did he ever make appearances in his district. Despite his elusiveness and aloofness, his seat in the Senate had never been threatened by a serious challenger, for long at least.

His challengers always seemed to be plagued by scandal; exposes about their connections to unsavory individuals, embarra.s.sing trysts with staff members or unethical campaign practices always seemed to surface at the most inopportune moments. If all else failed, an old acquaintance from the past would resurface for an anecdotal character a.s.sa.s.sination. At the height of the controversy, the grandfatherly senator would shuffle onto a stage and implore that civility be exercised during the very private, but now quite public, matter of his opponent; like an old friend, the tactic came through for the senator every time it was employed. The challenger would fade into infamy and Senator Engels would continue to tirelessly toil away for his beloved const.i.tuency, and toil for them he did.

The devoted Senator Engels garnered more than ten times as much pork as the average member of the Senate. Despite all the funds that he brought home to his state, his colleagues jealously regarded him for a different feat.

The Lion of K Street, as he was known, was the darling of every dishonest power broker, corrupt foundation and political organization with questionable loyalties, and he used his power and influence with them to destroy anyone that resisted him. The Lion ensured that his counterparts in the House pushed his allies' tome sized pieces of legislation and then ensured its pa.s.sing in the Senate. For his unwavering support, his allies granted him the power to destroy anyone he desired. In back room meetings, far from the public eye, the senator shed his faade of the timid patriarch for his true nature, an abusive and demeaning manipulator that would stop at nothing to have what he desired more power and influence.

After several moments on hold, a man's voice answered the phone.

"Angela, how are you dear?"

"I'm well sir! How are you?"

"All things considered, I'm alright."

"Great! Hold for one second; I'll connect you with the President."

The senator waited impatiently on the phone. Why am I the one waiting, when he's the one that called me?

"Fred? Sorry about the wait."

"Not a problem Mr. President, for what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Fred, I have some news I wanted to tell you myself, before you hear it somewhere else."