The Western Front: Parts 1-3 Part 1

The WESTERN FRONT.

Archer Garrett.

Therefore the law is paralyzed, and justice never prevails. The wicked hem in the righteous, so that justice is perverted.

-Habakkuk 1:4.

Prologue.

Barrett.

South Texas.

The south Texas sun had long since been replaced by the dull light of the harvest moon, but the day's arid temperatures still lingered. The bright orange disk in the night sky appeared so close that one might reach out and touch it. The wind had refused to blow for days, only serving to amplify the heat. Despite the miserable conditions, they were relieved. This would be their final patrol before they returned to their redoubt on the tip of South Padre Island for a much-needed respite. The members of the Texas State Guard's First Regiment were indeed soldiers, but few of them had real combat experience prior to this. The Alamo Guards were mostly known for their work in the aftermath of hurricanes and occasional support on the border. They took their new role in stride, as best they could, but none of the men in the squad had signed up for action like this. They had removed their name tapes early in the operation after reports surfaced that some of the soldiers' families had received death threats. Now, they communicated strictly with code names.

The three-story adobe-style mansion rested on two acres just north of Lasara. It had served as their forward operating base for the past week. The estate was surrounded by fallow fields on three sides and the small southwestern town to the south. The view atop the high, flat roof was better than anywhere else for miles. The home's cast-in-place concrete walls provided excellent protection from small-arms fire, and the surrounding eight-foot, brick wall afforded them additional cover and security. In short, it was as perfect a location as was available. They wondered who the previous owner was, and if there would ever be a time when he could return. Pictures still hung on the wall: group shots while on vacation, during holidays and other important moments in the life of the now displaced family that once dwelled there.

The owner's decision to install an indoor swimming pool was now a welcome reprieve for the weary soldiers, and a boost to morale in between patrols. It helped wash away the memories of the south Texas heat, and fierce gun battles with men known for their vicious treatment of prisoners. The Los Zetas and the Gulf Cartel had formed an uneasy alliance to push the gringos north. Once the Americans were sufficiently broken, the cartels would divide the spoils and territory amongst themselves. The Z-G, as they were commonly referred to as now, had developed a brutal reputation for flaying prisoners alive. This infamy had resulted in a ma.s.s exodus of locals.

The unit's squad leader, now referred to simply as Barrett, leaned over the billiards table in the salon. He examined several aerial, topographic and road maps spread out haphazardly in front of him. Several of his officers stood on either side of him and discussed the specifics of their final patrol.

"...Our scouts've observed several hostile vehicles around Raymondville not long ago. The Z-G rarely practice light discipline, so they should be easy enough to locate. We head out in two hours; be ready. We'll locate, identify and engage the targets, if they are, in fact, Z-G. Remember, all radio chatter is to be in coded Spanish. If our communication is being monitored by them, or anyone else, hopefully it'll sound like just another narco squabble over the airwaves. We're more likely to avoid a third party encounter or reinforcements that a'way. I want redundant checks on all equipment, especially the infrared lighting on the Humvees. This is our last night on vacation and we don't need any surprises. We've lost too many squads already, and I'm particularly partial to this one."

At 2100 hours, the sixteen guardsmen quietly pulled out of their lavish forward operating base and into the disputed borderlands that was once south Texas. The mood of the men was probably not unlike the mood of a different group of Texans in a small, Spanish mission nearly two hundred years prior. Barrett had even taken his namesake from a kindred soul that had fought and died in that same mission. Their plight was not much different from their ancestors' either.

The redoubt they had established on South Padre Island had been wildly successful in combating the cartels, but it was not going unnoticed. With every ambush, their outpost grew more desirable as a narco target.

The Alamo Guards had planted moored mines in the Port Mansfield Cut, nearly forty miles to the north, effectively blocking the only safe pa.s.sage into the waters beyond the barrier island. Cartel operators on the water had only two options if they meant to reach the mainland. They could travel north a hundred miles and battle Port Aransas, or bring the fight to South Padre Island. They had decided on the latter.

The guardsmen had repelled several a.s.saults from the causeway and the pa.s.s, but the attacks were growing fiercer and more unpredictable. The Guards of South Padre Island knew it was only a matter of time before they would all die, if reinforcements and supplies did not arrive soon.

After several minutes of searching, they located their quarry. The Humvees' were silent specters in the night. The drivers guided the vehicles solely by way of their night vision equipment. Ahead of them, four pickups cruised east on Highway 186 towards Raymondville.

The harvest moon illuminated all, taking favor with neither side. An observant narco would soon detect the soldiers if they did not move quickly.

"Ahora," Barrett ordered.

A guardsman opened the top hatch of the front Humvee and braced his elbows on the roof. He peered through the darkness by the aid of his night vision. The truck beds were filled with the silhouettes of riders and their easily recognizable Kalashnikov rifles. He dropped back into the Humvee and said, "Scouts were right. They ain't cowboys."

Barrett keyed his radio and tapped his finger against the microphone twice slowly and twice quickly the confirmation for hostiles. The four Humvees lurched forward, accelerating as one. Their engines roared like chupacabras.

By the time the cartels realized they were being pursued, the three-ton monsters were on top of them. The men in the back of the pickups never considered returning fire. They were too preoccupied with either bracing for impact or yelling, "Go, go!" in thick Spanish.

The Humvees were four wide and nearing 70 MPH as they reached the two rear pickups. The trucks' drivers were trying to accelerate, but were hopelessly blocked by the slower reactions of the amigos in front of them.

The driver of one of the rear pickups aimed for a dusty farm road. He suddenly jerked the wheel hard to the left. The high-speed transition from asphalt to gravel spun the light rear-end of the truck around. One of the narcos in the bed was flung from his perch and was engulfed by the shadows. His long wail was suddenly and forebodingly cut short.

The remaining rear truck was no match for the two Humvees that slammed into it. An explosion of screams and wrinkling of sheet metal pierced the night as the pickup lurched forward. Again the pair connected with the truck and pushed it along the highway like some strange, landside barge and tugboat. Two soldiers emerged from the top hatches of the Humvees and engaged the rear pickup with the top-mounted Miniguns. They each let a long burst of 7.62 NATO loose and utterly annihilated the target.

The two front pickups were now well aware of the fate that awaited them. Their engines roared with desperation as they struggled to pull away. Meanwhile, the two outside Humvees surged forward.

As Humvees neared their top speed, the trucks began to pull away. The narcos in the back had all watched as the Miniguns eviscerated their friends. They had no desire to elicit a similar response. They suddenly disappeared below the walls of the trucks' beds. Barrett keyed up his radio and spoke to his squad in coded Spanish.

"It's okay, let 'em pull off some. Let's see if they lead us somewhere. It's not like they can get away."

The pickups swerved in opposite directions at an intersecting dirt road. The Humvees split up and began to gain back the lost ground. The drivers realized the flaw in their maneuver, and within a mile were back on the straight asphalt drag of 186. As they approached the city, they blew past a sign that read: Raymondville City Limit.

Pop. 9733.

Welcome to G.o.d's Country.

A mile into town, the Barrett's radio squawked to life, "We've got company at our twelve up on the overpa.s.s. Looks like friendlies. What're they doing here?"

"Yeah, I see 'em. They're a long way from home. I haven't seen outside forces south of Corpus in months. Lead pair; get some men on your Mk 19s. As soon as the narcos are under the pa.s.s, hit 'em. If a couple grenades under the feet of our boys up top don't scare 'em back to Corpus, then maybe they're worth having around."

The lighter and faster pickups had a ten second lead on the Humvees as they approached the overpa.s.s. They would occasionally slalom in the highway, as if the drivers antic.i.p.ated another hailstorm from the Miniguns at any moment. Their unease helped the Humvees maintain a closer tail than they otherwise could have. Barrett gripped the radio fiercely in antic.i.p.ation. He preferred to use the old-style microphone while on patrol. It reminded him of a different time when wars were fought in distant lands, rather than Texas farm towns.

Twenty seconds until the fireworks.

Barrett leaned forward. As he peered through the front winds.h.i.+eld with his night vision goggles, a smirk crept across his face. He keyed the mic, "Everybody ready up top?"

Two affirmatives echoed back at him.

"Hold for my order." He craned his head and studied the unexpected spectators atop the overpa.s.s.

Fifteen seconds.

The driver of the lead pickup was sweating and swearing profusely. At this point, he had no promise of a next breath. Their only hope, in his mind, was to make it to the overpa.s.s, swerve across two lanes and hop the highway's edge curb. From there, if he could manage to retain some semblance of control, he would guide the truck around the sharp onramp that would lead them south to Highway 77 and survival. All at about 80 MPH. He knew the Humvees could never follow him. If he was lucky, they would turn their attention to the other truck, while he made his way to Avondale and beyond.

Ten seconds.

Barrett studied what he could now clearly identify as MRAP M-ATVs with their armaments pointed ominously downward.

Eight seconds.

Barrett's mind had been trying to process why they would allow friendlies to sweep under their barrels unless, no impossible. He could plainly see the markings on the vehicles from this distance.

Seven seconds.

They were obviously U.S. military. Weren't they? And yet, something was wrong.

Six seconds.

The driver of the lead pickup had maneuvered himself to the far right lane of the highway. The onramp for 77 south was fast approaching. His palms were sweaty on the wheel. He steadied his resolve and focused on the desperate plan. He never even bothered to look up at the overpa.s.s.

Five seconds.

Barrett's stomach was floating in his chest by the time he keyed the mic again. He couldn't risk the chance, and the time was now. "Up top, back in the Humvee, now! Now!"

The two men slid back into the cabins and slammed the top hatches shut. They were confused, and more than a little irritated. They were looking forward to rocking the world of the boys up top. As they finished the thought, they saw the first of the tracers. .h.i.t the pickups in front of them. The trucks seemed to buckle from the hail of bullets. Before they could react, a lead firestorm erupted all around them. It seemed as if every square inch of their armored roof was clanging in unison. At any moment, the Humvees would surely be torn apart.

The lead pickup careened off the road, into the ditch and then sailed through the air. Limp bodies were flung haphazardly from the bed of the flaming projectile. The other truck had spun several times and looked as if it would stop in the middle of the highway, until the front two Humvees slammed it forcefully to the other shoulder. The drivers of the rear Humvees had predicted the maneuver and braked abruptly to avoid a collision, while their team in the front blazed a path. With the road ahead clear, they accelerated ferociously.

Barrett quickly transitioned from shock to rage. He keyed the mic up in English for the first time.

"Shee-yit! We're on the same team!"

No response.

"This is the unit commander for Alpha Squad, Texas State Guards, First Regiment, Padre Island. Identify yourselves immediately or we will return fire."

Finally, a man responded, "Oh my G.o.d. Sir, do you have any casualties?" The voice of the squad leader was strained and audibly distraught. All protocol had been forgotten.

The other Humvees had been following the exchange and responded to Barrett in code, "All clear, Sir."

Barrett engaged the man atop the overpa.s.s again, "Negative on the casualties. We're taking up a defensive position. I want you and your squad off that d.a.m.n bridge and down here with me, on foot. Now. We've a lot to talk about."

"Affirmative, sir; we're coming down."

Chapter 1.

Jake.

West Mississippi.

He drifted in and out of that state of consciousness that was not quite asleep, but not quite awake. The sun was beginning to crest the loblolly and slash pine tops and kiss the pasture beyond with its warmth. As twilight fled once again, he was gently tugged away from his lull by the morning's light. Jake was not sure how long it had been since he had last heard the coffee perking, but even a bitter cup would be satisfying enough. He grabbed the long-barreled revolver from the table beside him and slid it into the worn, leather holster. He stretched his arms high overhead, before sauntering into the kitchen. A smile crept across his face as he poured the cup and stirred in the smallest amount of creamer. The percolator was just another small trespa.s.s against what was to be expected, and he relished that.

His stroll back outside was more purposeful as he began to feel the coffee's effects. Jake withdrew the revolver and slid it back onto the table. He sipped the coffee as he surveyed the back of his property and the adjoining pastures. It was peaceful and inviting, everything the world had ceased to be. The spring fog acted like a thick blanket over a distant pond.

Several wood ducks quacked argumentatively amongst themselves as they meandered aimlessly across the water. Occasionally they would dip beneath the surface for a hapless minnow, or perhaps some spongy bit of pond weed. He could faintly see a few white oaks beyond the fog and the pines, as the fields eventually gave way to the stands of timber and finally the hardwood swamp beyond. Satisfied with the serenity, he downed the last of his brew and stepped off the deck to scan the rest of the property, and reflect.

He thought to himself, how did we ever get so far off the right path? He knew the answer, even as he asked himself. It was incremental. The seemingly small and unrelated choices a people make are what ultimately destroy them. The swings of society's pendulum were almost always met with a near-equal and opposite force, but the culture's rudder never got quite back on the true course.

It was the nudges in the wrong direction: the values of a wiser generation that never connected with their sons and daughters, or the lessons of history that were lost or rewritten. He paused for a moment as he plucked a mandarin and rubbed his thumb across the leathery skin before continuing. One day, a point of singularity is inevitably reached. The nudges soon enough become shoves, and the worlds seems to change in a matter of days and weeks, rather than generations. A paradigm s.h.i.+ft occurs before one's very eyes, if they so choose to see it.

In one motion he lobbed the unripe citrus and lifted his hand to wave to Franklin Thames, his neighbor. Frank easily had three long and hard decades on Jake. His skin was weathered by years of working the land. The old man's worldview was molded by the time spent in reflection of wars fought long ago, wars that he was too young to understand at the time.

Frank wore faded brown overalls with a dusty, western hat. His right arm cradled an ancient, lever-action carbine, and his left hand pinched a hand-rolled cigarette. The old man was standing over a heap in his pasture. He motioned Jake his way.

Sasha, Jake's German shepherd, was already with the old man. She looked to be contently occupied with something firmly held in her mouth. Frank was the only other man Sasha would tolerate. Jake had tried to break her from leaving, but if Frank was tending to the cattle, she would split time between the two. Jake eventually relented, partly because he knew Frank appreciated her keeping watch for him while he worked.

Jake spread the barbed wire wide enough to duck through and approached the two. The heap on the ground was now obvious to him. Frank took one last drag of the tobacco before stamping it out with the heel of his boot.

"Jake, what're we going to do? This is the second time this month."

Jake examined what was left of the calf. By the looks of it, he reasoned, it had been field dressed sometime the night before. The object he had seen in Sasha's mouth was a bone that she had retrieved from the remains.

"Frank, I'm sorry; we never heard a thing. How many calves does that leave you with?"

"Ten, but I expect them to be gone before much longer if I don't bring them closer to the house. I don't have the manpower to watch the livestock and defend the house."

"I heard from Mr. Gaston that a farm not far from here was attacked two nights ago. There were six of them. The gunfire woke the neighbors. After they realized what was going on they rushed over and fought them off. They hit one of them. He ran off a ways, but bled out after his friends left him. The family didn't even realize he was there until the next morning; everyone was too afraid to go outside."

"Yeah, I heard about that. The sheriff showed up and took the body, but they didn't even investigate. Son, they're trying hard to stem the tide and losing ground every day. We're on our own out here."

The two men continued on with what might be considered the small talk of some strange new world. Sasha playfully gnawed at her bone, occasionally looking up at the two and tilting her head to the side, as if to admit confusion at some bit of news or gossip. The men mused about the farm, and how fortunate they were to actually have neighbors close enough to come to their aid. Jake and Frank realized, without mention, the similarities between the farm and their own.

Jake had bought twenty acres from Frank nearly a decade earlier. The two had met through a realtor friend of Frank's. Frank needed the liquidity to continue running the farm, but didn't want to openly list the property and deal with the numerous, random, potential buyers stalking through the tall ryegra.s.s and under the aging pecan trees that dotted his winter pasture. She told him that it was just part of the process, but he refused. "You'll know the right buyer when you meet him and when you do, send him my way." And so she did.

Franklin Thames and Jake Sellers had a longneck and a long talk befitting old friends in Frank's hayloft overlooking the property that first evening. The next day they began the process of transferring the property. It took another week to formalize the purchase, but to both men the handshake after that first evening was the true point of sale.

Relative to the other homesteads and farmhouses, Jake's house was unusually close to Frank's, but the two families from different eras enjoyed the friends.h.i.+p that blossomed from that closeness.

The men exchanged a few final words and nodded as they parted. Sasha stood to stretch, let out a high pitched whine and trotted off with Jake. Jake and Sasha crossed the fence and continued to the back of the property to finish the morning outing.

The cool morning air was the first sign of autumn's arrival. The gentle breeze would soon rustle the pecans from their perches amongst the long rows of trees. He looked forward to trading them for some of Mrs. Thames' locally renowned pecan pies.

Jake's pleasant thoughts wavered as he returned to the realities of his situation. It had been peaceful enough for longer than any of them expected, but the problems of the cities and suburbs had finally reached their sleepy community.

Besides the price of everything rising by a factor of five and the ma.s.s unemployment, the first sign of the approaching storm had been the blackouts. Originally, it seemed innocent enough; a sub-station failure during a thunderstorm that probably just needed a quick repair. When the utility crew had arrived onsite, however, they were beaten and robbed. By the second or third ambush, a worker was kidnapped and ransomed.

The crews eventually refused to perform any repairs without a police escort. In the beginning this prolonged the blackouts by several hours. As cities spiraled further into chaos, however, the delays became much longer. This only seemed to escalate the cycle of violence and unrest, fueled by the deterioration of an expected quality of life.

Jake's mind continued to wander as he approached the back of his house. After several more steps, his wife's silhouette appeared at the threshold of the back door.

"Come on in hun, breakfast is almost ready."

Jake stopped for a moment and grinned at her, his right hand instinctively coming to rest on the wooden grip of the .357. Sasha poked her head between his legs, plopped down on her haunches and looked at Kate.

"What're you two trouble makers staring at?" Kate struggled to hold back the smile that was creeping across her face. She playfully put her hands on her hips and feigned disdain.

"We just wanted to take you in for a moment. You look beautiful."

"Oh hus.h.!.+" she quipped, still smiling, "I look like a wreck. Save your smooth talk for when you need it!" She spun abruptly, hiding her blus.h.i.+ng cheeks from him, and marched back inside in an exaggerated manner.