The Western Front: Parts 1-3 Part 7

"I was only gone a few minutes."

"That's not what I meant."

He kissed her forehead and then shoved Geram as he made gagging sounds in the front seat.

"I'm going to be sick if the whole trip is you two making out."

"Fine then, I'll take that vest back."

"You know, it's okay if I get a little queasy after all."

Jake laughed, "Just shut up and follow me."

As Jake drove away, they stared through the darkness at the fields and farms that pa.s.sed by them. They knew that they would probably never return. It saddened Kate to leave the home she loved so much. She could name the families on every farm for miles. She appreciated how the community had taken her in when they had first moved here. Looking back, she remembered how young she was. She could barely bake a cake, but the old ladies took her in and taught her everything they knew. She embraced their generosity and eagerly absorbed their sage wisdom, hard earned from years of first-hand experiences. She knew she would miss the people that had helped make her who she was. Kate hoped against hope that one day they could come back.

As they pa.s.sed the last farm heading east, the road became much darker. The open fields and pastures from before were replaced by thick walls of trees and vegetation on both sides of the road. Much of the forest was stands of timber that had not received their prescribed burning as needed. The undergrowth had become impossibly dense. The road felt much safer when they were surrounded by the open fields. Now, it seemed danger could be lurking just off of the shoulder of the road.

As they topped the final hill before the bridge, they saw the orange tractor that had been used to cut the trench across the highway. They also noticed an old four-wheel drive truck parked beside it. Several figures stood in the center of the road with lanterns and rifles.

Geram clenched the FN FAL and said, "I thought they weren't coming out until in the morning?"

"I guess they changed their minds. Easy with the rifle, I know all of these men. When I stop you can open your door and steady the rifle, but don't get out where they can see it. I want to talk to them first. If any of them make a move on me, though, kill 'em."

"Be careful, Jake." Kate pleaded.

"Yeah Jake, listen to Kate. This whole town is spooked ever since, well, you know."

"Believe me, I know. I'll be careful." Jake eased the Bronco to a stop about a hundred yards from the men and slowly climbed out. He shoved the long-barreled revolver in his pants at the small of his back and clipped one of the hand-held radios to his back pocket. Before he stepped forward, he shined his flashlight on himself and shouted, "It's Jake Sellers, don't shoot fellas."

"We know who it is, Jake," the first man replied, "Come a little closer so we don't have to shout."

Jake walked towards the men as casually as possible. When he was a dozen yards away, he spoke again, "We've decided to leave. We can't stand to live next to the old Thames' house, especially with the way that they died. Do you mind helping me get across, Hank?"

"Did Levi Richardson tell you?"

"Levi? No, haven't seen him all day."

"Don't lie to me Jake; I've known you for far too long. We've decided to prohibit anyone from crossing the bridge. No one in or out unless it's an emergency, and Levi told you about our decision. Old man Richardson sent word that the boy didn't come home after church. We all know where he went."

"Okay, so I lied. You're right I admit it. You're right on two points though, you've known me for far too long; far too long to treat a friend this way, Hank."

"It's nothing personal. It is what it is. We have to protect our own. We can't let someone like you, someone that knows this place so well, leave and compromise everyone else's safety."

"You have my word, my oath. I will never return and will never mention this place to anyone, ever."

"That's just not good enough Jake. I can't let you leave. It's been decided. Now please, just go home."

Jake exhaled deeply and moved his right foot into position, slightly ahead of his shoulders. He leaned forward and put his weight on the front foot. He rested both hands on his hips before speaking again, this time much more forcefully.

"How long have you known me, all of you?"

"It doesn't matter, Jake it-"

Jake cut the man off as he raised his voice to a shout, "I said - how long have you known me?"

"Umm, maybe eight years?"

"Ten years, Hank. Ten years. How many times have we shot together behind your barn?"

"I don't know; a lot."

"That's right a lot. Tell everybody here how fast my draw is."

"It's pre-"

Before Hank could finish the sentence, Jake had drawn and leveled the revolver even with his head. The man began stammer. Jake snarled once again, now in complete control of the encounter.

"d.a.m.n it, Hank! Is this what it is now? Do I kill you in front of our friends? Do not, n.o.body, do not move, or I will kill Hank McCaskill right where he stands. Understand?"

The three men nodded.

Jake continued, "I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking it too. I can't kill all three of you." Jake grasped the radio with his other hand and pressed the b.u.t.ton. "Geram, if I shoot, I want you to kill everyone left standing. Except me, don't kill me."

"Wilco."

He could hear Kate screaming in the background of the broadcast.

With his point well made, Jake exhaled deeply and spoke in a more reserved voice. "I'm going to ask each of you to, one at a time, put all of your weapons on the ground in front of you. Then, you're going to take ten steps back. After that, I'll have Geram pull ahead. We'll pat you down and then Hank will get on the tractor and lay those cross ties across the gap. Then, we leave. Once we're over the gap, you'll remove the cross ties. We'll leave your weapons on the bridge and you can come get them after we're gone. Understood?"

The men quietly nodded and did as was ordered.

Jake radioed Geram and he pulled the Bronco forward. Hank climbed onto the tractor and pushed the creosote railroad ties over the trench. Geram gathered up the men's weapons and placed them on the front pa.s.senger seat of the SUV. Jake followed behind on foot as Geram pulled the Bronco across the trench and onto the bridge beyond.

Jake paused for a moment and turned to face the men. "I'll always remember this night, Hank. This is the night this town went mad. Not when Sam Coleman murdered Frank and Margaret, it was tonight. You probably hate me right now. You probably want me dead. I want you to know something, I couldn't've pulled that trigger. Geram would've killed you, no doubt in my mind, but I couldn't have done it."

Jake cleared his throat and continued, "We're living in a time that'll be remembered for ages, believe me. How we live, how we treat our neighbors, it'll all be remembered. We've been shoved into a forge, but we've a choice; we can melt into something that has no resemblance of who we were, or we can rise up and allow our imperfections to burn off and leave men of substance in its place. It's our choice."

As he turned to leave, Hank replied, "Jake, wait."

He paused and looked back. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry, we're sorry. That's all I can say."

He sighed and said, "It's alright, I'm sorry to."

"If you ever I mean, if things get better and you want to, you still have a home here."

"Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"I do. We do."

The other men nodded in agreement.

"Thanks, all of you; maybe one day. By the way, have someone go by Frank's house and check the closet at the end of the hall. I left it open. I think there may be a few things in there that you're going to need before this mess is over."

Chapter 13.

Barrett Brownsville, Texas Barrett listened as the sound of the Black Hawk faded into the east. He turned back towards the group. In a way, he thought, it was a joint mission. The twelve member squad was evenly selected from the guardsmen and the SEALs; six of each. The SEALs had the combat experience that was desperately needed, and the guards knew the area better than any. At this point, however, the six operators were probably considered former SEALs by their employer.

Officially, Barrett was the squad leader, but he had deferred many of the leadership roles to Holt, the code name adopted by the young SEAL Lieutenant. Barrett had previously served as a SEAL, but never as a squad leader. To him, the most experienced person should lead. There was no room for ego in the field.

They had been dropped on a small wooded island just north of the intersection of 77 and University Boulevard, in Brownsville. Their mission was to proceed southwest through the UT at Brownsville campus and the Fort Brown Memorial Golf Course, across the Rio Grande and into Matamoros, Mexico. Once in Mexico they would recon de Parque Olimpico; Olympic Park.

Texan predator drones had recently picked up some unusual activity at the park. Semi-trucks had been observed hauling canopied loads into the area. An extensive array of large canvas hangars had begun to appear several days ago. The park more closely resembled the terminal areas of an airport, rather than a public green s.p.a.ce.

The trucks' cargo would remain covered until they pulled under one of the hangars. Once unloaded, the trucks would leave empty. Whatever was being delivered was intended to be hidden from prying eyes.

They spread out among the thicket in a wedge formation and rechecked their gear. Barrett listened for any sounds of movement nearby. The once-bustling city was eerily silent. Occasionally a vehicle could be heard speeding down the highway, most likely a member of the Z-G. Even Mexican nationals were rarely seen north of the border. The cartels had become increasingly violent, and it was not always targeted at the gringos. As bad as it was south of the border, just north of it was far worse. The northern incursion by the cartels had brought with it a scorched earth policy as they plundered the spoils of the American southwest.

After several minutes of uneventful silence, they began to slowly move west to the short causeway that led off the island. They stayed off of the narrow asphalt pavement, preferring the concealment that the shadows afforded. Their night-vision allowed them to move easily through the heavy blanket of darkness that enveloped the city a symptom of a failed, or rather an abandoned, power grid.

As they left the wooded sanctuary of the island, the backdrop quickly changed to the deserted, low-cla.s.s suburbs of south Brownsville. The squad navigated the block and took their second left onto East 24th Street.

Barrett was horrified as he looked down the neighborhood street. Brownsville had obviously received the full burden of the violence. Most of the battered homes' windows and doors were smashed and broken. Several houses had been reduced to smoldering ruins, and an occasional, mangled body lay in a yard or on the sidewalk.

East 24th Street would have been dangerous to traverse had it not been for the numerous vehicles haphazardly abandoned in both lanes. The street had been selected as their route precisely due to the large number of discarded vehicles it contained. It would be impossible for the squad to be overtaken by a fast-moving truck full of banditos along the street.

The bodies of his fellow countrymen particularly disturbed Barrett. The men and women that died in this place died for one reason, they could not afford to flee. As he pa.s.sed the occasional body, he felt a strong sense of guilt. Perhaps there was more that they should have done. More evacuations, maybe forced evacuations? He did not know the answer. Ultimately, he knew that people were personally responsible for themselves and their families, but no one could have imagined the horrors of the tempest that had rolled across south Texas. Like a dust-bowl sand storm, it had engulfed everything and everyone in its path.

The squad moved with deft precision through the shadows of the vacant ward. Occasional bursts of gunfire and barking dogs interrupted the foreboding silence that surrounded them.

The sheer number of stray dogs was heartbreaking. They were not wild dogs, but collared, starving, house pets that sensed the men's advances through their territory. Some would growl for a moment before shrinking away. Others would simply rush blindly up to the men, seeking the affection they no longer received from the owners that had turned them loose before retreating northward.

The University of Texas at Brownsville was a stark contrast to the bleak neighborhoods to the north. Despite the occasional indication of having been looted, and the obvious months-long lack of maintenance, the campus was still beautiful. Amphitheaters, fountains and gardens, they all remained. The Resaca, or oxbow lake, reflected the occasional star that shined through the cloudy, night sky. The squad took full advantage of the broad shadows cast by the tall campus buildings as they continued south.

As they crossed the narrow isthmus on Ringgold Road that connected the north and south sections of the campus, they heard the shattering of gla.s.s somewhere ahead. The squad disappeared into the tall gra.s.s and shrubs along the shoulders of the road. They readied their rifles and scanned ahead, looking for the source of the sound. From behind a distant building, they saw a bottle fly through the air and shatter on the pavement in front of them.

An engine rumbled to life. Headlights flashed across the pavement. A large, flatbed truck slowly appeared from around the building and turn north towards the squad. The two amigos up front were scanning the road ahead, but the half-dozen soldados on the back were drinking and howling as they flung empty bottles at pa.s.sing signs and windows. Their rifles bounced and clattered on the bed of the truck beside them. Unbeknownst to the men, a dozen rifles were trained at them from the darkness beyond.

Barrett followed the driver with his M4 carbine, watching him as he drove the aging diesel unwittingly past a momentarily merciful angel of death. He wondered what the men's purpose was, meandering through the city. Perhaps they were freelance thugs, scavenging the remains of the city. He considered the thought and decided it was highly unlikely. They were most likely part of the narco alliance.

The flatbed sentries pa.s.sed by without incident. After several minutes, the squad resumed their trek down Ringgold Road. They crossed University Boulevard, pa.s.sed the student REK center and disappeared back down along the wooded sh.o.r.eline of the oxbow lake, continually moving south.

Up ahead, they saw a ruined, smoldering building. As they approached, Barrett was filled with rage. He had heard that the National Guard Facility had fallen, but seeing the horrific results first hand was more than he could stand.

The white building had gaping holes in its sides, and was blackened and charred with soot. Several badly burned Humvees were scattered about, and many more were missing. The red, white and blue flag that had flown over the facility had been replaced with a red, white and green standard. The squad noticed the grisly pikes that were prominently displayed around the flag pole in front of the building. They were adorned in the same macabre fashion as before.

The squad paused upon seeing the horrific sight. Several men made the sign of the cross, while others simply bowed their heads to say a solemn prayer for the brave souls that were lost.

In the distance, gunfire rang out somewhere in the city. Barrett cursed himself for letting the driver of the flatbed pa.s.s through his sights and continue to wreak havoc. The men turned and nodded to each other in an unspoken agreement. They would not be as merciful next time.

The team crossed River Levee Road and entered Fort Brown Memorial Golf Course. The greens had seen two seasons without any maintenance. The tall gra.s.s helped conceal the squad as they dashed through the night to the tree line. They spotted a distant campfire on the far side of the course. Apparently someone had sought the relative safety of the abandoned greens. Still, the open campfire was a perilous luxury they had afforded themselves. The squad maintained a watchful eye on dancing flames as they cut across the course.

After several minutes, they were standing on the bank of the Rio Grande. It had been decided that they would divide into three fire teams upon reaching the river. The first team would remain on the American side of the river and provide observation, rear guard and long-range fire support. The other teams would cross the Rio Grande. The second team would remain in a defensive position on the Mexican side of the river, and the final team would perform the reconnaissance of the park.

The first team found a high position that afforded them concealment and line of sight, while the other two teams readied themselves for the crossing. Team Two reached the opposite bank first and got into a forward facing position.

As the final team reached foreign soil, they stripped out of their wet battle dress uniforms and retrieved the dry civilian garbs from their packs. The clothing was nondescript and typical for the area: cotton pants and b.u.t.toned shirts with ball caps. Two of the team members wore tattered sneakers. The other two wore boots and serape capes loosely draped over their shirts. The two SEALs concealed suppressed MP5s beneath their serapes, while the guardsmen abandoned their M4 carbines for Berretta pistols. The two teams exchanged their goodbyes and slaps on the back, before the final team disappeared over the hill and into Matamoros.

Barrett, Holt and the two other members of the team climbed the steep wooded bank and crossed the empty street that followed the Rio Grande's meanderings. They strolled along the sidewalk nonchalantly, like locals familiar with the area. They split up in pairs as they pa.s.sed a pedestrian and remained a short distance apart as they continued onward. After a block or so, they turned right onto Alheles.

From their perspective, Matamoros was not unlike many other cities. The buildings in the area were well maintained, and the sidewalks and streets were reasonably free of trash. The streets were in rather poor condition, though. They were cracked heavily and missing chunks of pavement in some areas. Other sections were no more than a series of patches, the original pavement long since replaced.

There was no access to any property beyond the sidewalks. Fences, gates and buildings were constructed to the edge of the street's right of way. All windows were covered with bars to further protect the viviendas from any matns that may be looking for an easy target. Most of the streetlights were not working for one reason or another. Alheles Street was dark, save for the occasional, dim, porch light. Barrett preferred the darkness. He knew that a nosy local would immediately make them for gringos.

The one-way street was lined with old, rusted Fords and Pontiacs. An occasional Mercedes could be seen behind eight foot wrought-iron fencing with barb wire strung across the top.

As they reached the end of the block, the young guardsman beside Barrett whispered, "There're four men about a ways behind us. I think we're being followed."

"Yeah, they're definitely following us. They have been since we first stepped foot in the city."

"Well, what now?"

"Just keep walking, we'll round the corner and see what our options are.

The four gamberros had watched the fire team appear out of the thicket that covered the banks of the Rio Grande from several blocks away. They were intrigued by the men and decided to shadow them for a short while. The strangers seemed to blend into the area well enough, perhaps too well. To anyone else, the men from the river would have likely been a pa.s.sing blur in the night. But to the gamberros, who lived on the streets, something was subtly foreign about the four.

The small-time thugs survived by blade and barrel. They were thieves, murderers and always for hire. They terrorized the honest people that lived on the blocks that they laid claim to. To the gamberros, it was simply the nature of things. If they did not do it someone else would, so it may as well be them.

As the gamberros warily shadowed the men from a safe distance, the leader of the group retrieved the nickel-plated pistola from the small of his back. His three compadres gripped their long-bladed puales in antic.i.p.ation of the encounter. They saw the men from the river glance sidelong and notice their presence. The four, strange men quickened their pace as they prepared to turn onto Primera.

After the men from the river rounded the corner, the gamberros quickened their pace as well. Their pulses remained subdued, however. To them, it was just another mugging. The leader was the first around the corner with the three others in quick step behind him. They noticed two of the men from the river, the two in sneakers, standing a half a block away. The men in the serapes had mysteriously disappeared. No worries though, they thought, two would be easier to subdue than four anyway.

They never considered casting a glance into the dark alcove as they rushed the two men from the river. As they hurried past the shallow nook at the entrance of the shuttered store, several m.u.f.fled shots cracked in quick succession. The three compadres slumped and fell without uttering a word. The wounded leader groaned as he turned and aimed his pistol into the darkness. Before he could finish the motion, he was ventilated by another m.u.f.fled volley.