Authors: Joe Nobody
“Hiya, big guy!” Bishop greeted his son, moving to take the little one from Diana. “How’s my best buddy doing this morning?”
Hunter, obviously thrilled to see his primary playmate, reached for his father’s embrace while screaming, “Daddy!”
“Diana wants me to tag along with your SAINT team, Bishop. She’s worried that Washington is going to try and put the blame for the massacre on the Alliance,” Terri casually announced.
“That’s one hell of an idea,” Nick interjected before Bishop could respond. “Sheriff Watts has at least 20 deputies down there right now, so it’s probably one of the safest places in the entire territory.”
Bishop stopped flying his Hunter-airplane, much to the dismay of the tot. The Texan became serious in an instant, “Terri, how many times do we have to go over this? New Mexico and the Toymaker were an exception. I thought we agreed not to endanger our son anymore?”
“Oh, I’m going to babysit Hunter,” Diana chimed in. “You and Terri can go check out the convoy and make nice with the U.S. representative for a few days. After that, why don’t you take a little time together and enjoy Lake Amistad? I’m sure there’s at least one functioning boat left. I’ll even requisition some gasoline.”
“It would be a chance for some alone time,” Terri added, seductively moving to hook arms with her husband and flashing a sultry look.
Bishop’s eyes moved from each of his friends and then landed on his wife. “I can see that I’m a victim of a conspiracy here,” he mumbled. “Not only am I hopelessly outnumbered, but you’re using intimacy as a weapon of mass destruction. What possible choice do I really have? I guess Terri’s going along on this trip.”
Diana and Nick exchanged knowing looks, and then the Alliance’s top elected official reached for Hunter. “I’m going to spoil you rotten, little man. I know where the best ice cream is in all of Alpha, and we’re going to put a serious dent in their inventory.”
“Be careful there, lady,” Bishop teased. “That’s my son you’re now in charge of.”
Nick grunted, “I’ll say the same to you, sir. Be careful, my friend. That’s my son you’re now in charge of.”
Bishop could see whiffs of smoke from a considerable distance as the Blackhawk began a gradual descent toward the scene of the massacre. It wasn’t long before the scope of the tragedy came into focus.
The lake laid to the west, an impressive reservoir commanding over 800 miles of shoreline. Bishop remembered reading that it was the fourth largest body of water in all of Texas.
To the east flowed the Rio Grande, a narrow stream compared to the mass of the basin. Separating the two was a roadway with waterfront on one side and farmland on the other. The dam, along with its spill gates, rested in the middle. Just on the Texas side of the river, the blackened, charred remains of several trucks spoiled the otherwise picturesque view.
“Wow,” the Texan mouthed, turning to give Terri a look of wonderment. “That was a serious ass ambush if I’ve ever seen one.”
“That’s going to take weeks to clean up,” she shouted over the helicopter’s roar. “Those poor truck drivers never had a chance.”
The bird landed next to what had been the old U.S. Border Patrol station, a choking cloud of South Texas dust rising into the air. Grim and Kevin exited first, habit prompting both men to take up defensive positions. Bishop hopped out next, followed by Butter who helped Miss Terri out of the chopper.
“Suck up,” Bishop sneered as the big kid passed.
As quickly as possible, all of them moved away from the whirlybird and the fog of sand and grit being catapulted skyward. At the edge of clear air stood Sheriff Watts, complete with mirrored sunglasses and Smokey the Bear hat.
The lawman was all business, “If you’ll come this way, I’ll brief you on what we know and what we suspect.”
As the group trudged toward the bridge, Bishop pulled Butter aside. “I have a special job for you. I want you to guard Terri like a hawk. You are now her personal bodyguard. Anything happens to her, and you and I will have an unpleasant encounter. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. You know I’d die for Miss Terri, sir,” Butter guaranteed.
“I’m probably being paranoid, big guy, but somebody shot up this caravan and did a damn fine job of it at that. Stick to that woman like glue, and keep your eyes open. If something even looks slightly out of place, I want her out of here. Immediately. Without delay. Post haste.”
“With two of us watching out for her, she’ll be fine,” the team member whispered. Bishop observed as Butter hustled to catch up with his wife while she strolled along with Watts.
As the entourage approached the bridge, a single man appeared from the wreckage and waved to Watts. “That would be one Mr. McCarthy,” the sheriff announced. “He works for Washington and was the individual who commissioned these food trucks.”
Deputies were crawling all over the area, most of the law enforcement personnel concentrating along both sides of the road. “We’re searching for any evidence that would explain where the bushwhackers were hiding,” Watts explained. “The trucks … or what is left of them, have already been processed.”
“And?” Bishop inquired.
“We know that a variety of weapons were used in the ambush. We’ve found at least five different calibers, most of them sizable. From what we can tell, there were approximately 20 shooters. We have no idea how they got to the bridge or how they left though.”
“Maybe by boat?” Terri asked, glancing at the water.
“Could be, ma’am. At this point, your guess is as good as mine.”
Bishop pointed toward the massive, yellow earthmover, “Where did that come from?”
“We believe it was hotwired and driven here from just outside Del Rio. The Alliance was in the early stages of trying to repair the dam’s hydroelectric generators that were damaged during the collapse. A lot of silting has occurred in front of the intake, and the engineers were drawing up plans to redirect the flow and sent in huge machines like that to clean up the mess.”
“Had the project started?” Bishop asked.
“No, sir,” replied the officer. “This area is still a bit unsettled. We’re making inroads into reestablishing the rule of law, but our progress has been slow along the river.”
“Why?” Terri asked, now intrigued.
Watts paused, wanting to pick his words carefully. “This area was being pulled apart at the seams before the collapse, ma’am. We had pronounced racial and cultural tensions. Not to mention the cartels creating havoc just on the other side of the river and their determination to smuggle drugs and people into the States. A huge economic divide between the populations of the two countries made a definitive border a necessity. You know, I think whoever said, ‘Good fences make good neighbors,’ surely had the southern Texas boundary in mind,” the sheriff paused as he continued. “But then, the border kind of evaporated, and the various factions hereabouts determined to tear each other to shreds.”
Bishop’s first reaction to the lawman’s words was to tighten the grip on his carbine. Then, glancing at his wife with concern for her safety, he inquired, “Has order been reestablished, Sheriff?”
“Mostly, yes. We’ve had a few corruption issues with some of the leadership, and from what I’m told by the locals, there has been a lot of cross-border activity originating from both sides. The big shots in Alpha informed me a few days ago that the Eastern Rio Grande Valley will be one of the last areas of Texas to be fully reintegrated, mainly because there’s hardly anybody left alive down here.”
McCarthy arrived just then, prompting Terri to put on her diplomatic hat after handshakes and introductions had been accomplished. “Sir, I can’t express the Alliance’s sadness and regret over this incident. I know I speak for everyone in Alpha when I say that we are all deeply troubled by this tragedy and want to assure you and the President that our government is doing everything in its power to find the criminals who perpetrated this atrocity and bring them to justice.”
It became immediately obvious that the man representing the interests of the United States wasn’t a happy camper. “Thank you for those words, ma’am, but I’m only interested in results.” He then turned to Sheriff Watts and barked, “Are any of these new arrivals the forensic specialists my government requested?”
Bishop didn’t like the man’s attitude nor the fact that he had dismissed Terri’s words without even a polite consideration. Still, the Texan checked his reaction. Mr. McCarthy’s last few days surely had been a nightmare.
Watts seemed to have had his fill of the man as well. “No, sir, these people are not law enforcement. As I explained before, sir, the Alliance doesn’t have any forensic specialists available, and even if we did, this really isn’t the type of crime scene where those skills could be utilized.”
“So why are they here, Sheriff?”
“I’ve pulled in deputies from over 50 miles away, Mr. McCarthy. Even at that, if the vigilantes who executed this ambush return, my people aren’t equipped to handle a para-military force of any size. The Alliance mobilizes SAINT teams for situations like this.”
McCarthy’s voice became louder as he mounted his tirade. “I can’t believe that in all of Texas there isn’t a qualified CSI team. I feel like this incident isn’t a high priority for your government.”
The statement was yet another example of the rhetoric coming out of Washington. Diana had been warned by the newly appointed Alliance ambassador that such conversations were taking place in the hallowed halls of the U.S. capital. Some legislators had even gone so far as to insinuate that the Alliance had been responsible for the attack.
Terri stepped in, flexing charm instead of muscle. “If you have access to such a team from the U.S., I’ll grant permission for them to enter Alliance territory and examine the scene, sir. We have nothing to hide … nothing whatsoever. While our lack of resources is somewhat embarrassing, we’ll gladly accept any help available in solving this crime.”
Her countermove stunned McCarthy, who suddenly found himself at a loss for words. Terri had essentially cut the verbal legs out from under the man, and everyone watching the conversation knew it. It was common knowledge that such specialized personnel were extremely rare in either nation, and she had just shut down his main argument in less than five seconds. Terri didn’t rub it in or gloat, however, keeping a look of pure, innocent sincerity on her face as she waited for a response.
“I’ll take that offer under advisement and contact my superiors as soon as possible,” McCarthy finally grumbled.
Bishop leaned close to Butter and whispered, “See? I told you so. A mean woman. Grim ain’t shit compared to that.”
A few hours passed as the new arrivals received a tour of the gruesome site and surrounding area. It was clear to Bishop that the ambushers had arrived by boat, hidden alongside the road, and waited for the trucks to enter the kill zone. Simple. Effective. Deadly as hell.
From a purely professional aspect, the Texan had to admire the planning that had gone into the action, especially the simplicity.
Old adages abounded, infantry wisdom that postulated even the best battle plans changed as soon as the first shot was fired. Bishop’s experience reaffirmed those proverbs.
In reality, the best plan was always the easiest to communicate to the troops. Effective leaders understood the fear, panic, bedlam, and confusion that average humans experienced when other people were trying to kill them. Being able to recall when, where, and what you were supposed to do became nearly impossible during intense combat. Complex coordination among multiple groups of people just wasn’t practical.
Good generals played checkers, not chess.
Whoever had planned the convoy’s demise had obviously had his shit in one, single, neat bag. While Bishop deplored the slaughter of “innocent” life, he had to respect the forethought that had gone into the operation.
“We’re dealing with professionals here,” he stated calmly to Watts and his team. “They used a minimum of ammunition, exposed themselves for a matter of seconds, and had an excellent path of regress if things went horribly wrong.”
Grim agreed, “This was well done. Probably one of the best ambushes I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been on both sides of the equation more times than I care to remember.”
Watts rubbed his chin, “So we’re looking for a military unit of some sort?”
“Not necessarily,” Bishop responded, sweeping the length of the bridge with his arm. “There wasn’t a lot of skill required by the average rifleman here, and that’s the brilliance of the thing. In this spot, with good intelligence, pretty much any group of men could have pulled this off. The leadership, however, knew what they were doing. Probably military, or cartel combat experience … a guy sporting a resume heavy on fighting with a dash of leadership experience was giving the orders here.”
Terri, growing bored with the soldierly aspects of the massacre, pointed toward the message scrawled on the yellow, commercial grader. “If they were such precise, professional killers, why did they take the time to paint that?”
No one seemed to have an answer. Still, she couldn’t help but think the graffiti was a key piece of the puzzle. “Set them free,” she read aloud, unwilling to let the subject go. “Set who free?”
“Prisoners?” Watts offered. “Captives being held that someone wants to be released?”
“Hostages?” Bishop asked when no one responded to Watts offering.
Terri shook her head, “The Alliance would know if either of those two scenarios existed. We’ve only recently started incarcerating criminals. Sheriff, you would know if any large group of hostages were being held. No, this is something different.”
“The Alliance would know if it was happening in our territory,” Bishop offered, staring south toward Mexico. “Who knows what’s happening on the other side of the river?”
“But the attack came on our side of the bridge,” Watts countered.
Terri tilted her head in thought, smiling at her husband’s observation. Without warning, she pivoted quickly, her eyes boring into Mr. McCarthy. “Exactly what is going on south of the border, sir? You sent those truckers down there. Your government negotiated some sort of arrangement, and you’ve been awfully quiet about the subject.”
Flashing the classic “deer in the headlights” gaze, McCarthy managed a half-hearted shrug.
“We’ve been assuming that someone from Texas was involved,” Watts chimed in, happy to get on Terri’s bandwagon. “Perhaps that was in error. Where were these drivers picking up their loads, Mr. McCarthy?”
“I didn’t personally travel to Mexico or participate in any of the negotiations with the leadership down there,” he countered. “I gave the drivers a map and information about whom they were to contact once they arrived. Their trailers were to have been preloaded and ready when the semis arrived. It wasn’t a complex arrangement.”
Terri stepped forward, her eyes like laser beams on the man from Washington. “Who did cut the deal? How was payment made? You seem content to put the blame on the Alliance, but not willing to offer any details. Why?”
McCarthy was more prepared this time. When Terri had first arrived, he’d written her off as just another pretty face. Now he knew why she was here and was ready for her verbal onslaught. “I can’t provide what I don’t know, ma’am. I was told to hire 15 truckers and given authority to offer them various forms of payment. Their destination was a fertile valley 40 miles north of Monterrey where the loaded trailers were to be waiting. That’s all I know.”