The Surge - 03 (10 page)

Sam didn’t follow. “So?”

“So why take the risk of coming to Texas for firepower? The only thing we have to offer is automatic rifles, which wouldn’t increase the cartel’s offensive capabilities all that much. The whole scenario just doesn’t make sense.”

She contemplated his statement for a bit before responding, “I don’t know about that. Having people able to spray all that lead surely scares the hell out of me, whether they bought the weapons here or overseas.”

Nodding toward an upcoming exit, Zach said, “Let’s stop and talk to an expert. You remember this place, don’t you?”

Sam stared up at the sign announcing Florence, Texas. “Hell, yes, I remember. I spent several horrible weeks there while going through that boot camp everyone calls the academy. How could anyone forget?”

With a grin, Zach flipped on the truck’s turn signal and maneuvered off the interstate.

The two rangers passed through the tiny burg of Florence, meandering south along Texas 195 until they reached a secondary county road labeled only with a small white sign designating it as 240.

A mile passed before a heavy, metal gate appeared across the roadway. Zach had to dig in the truck’s console for his keycard.

The rangers were soon granted entry into the Department of Public Safety’s Tactical Training facility.

Anyone wanting to become a trooper in the republic had passed through the same security fence, the location hosting part of the 23-week training program all such officers were required to attend.

The Florence facility, often referred to as simply “North,” offered two areas of specialty training for the up and coming law enforcement recruit – driving and shooting.

Zach and Sam passed the main administration building and soon found themselves gazing across a huge open space consumed by what appeared to be a racetrack worthy of hosting an international Grand Prix. In addition to the extensive outer ring of pavement, the course was subdivided by multiple intersections and cross streets, all composed of different types of surfaces. It was one of the best premier, high-speed, driving facilities anywhere in the world.

As they continued, the two rangers soon approached what appeared to be three enormous, flat, empty parking lots. “That was my favorite part,” Zach stated proudly, “the skid pads. That was a blast.”

“Little boys love to play in the mud,” Sam teased. “I suppose spinning a car around on wet concrete would be a dream come true.”

They continued on, each remembering their own impressions of the academy. Next came the urban training area, complete with several blocks of streets laid out in a grid meant to mimic a common subdivision. Zach grinned when he noted the black stains on the white road-surface. He’d left his fair share of skid marks during the course, the sound of squealing tires and the smell of smoking rubber one of his fondest memories.

Finally, they arrived at the 40-acre firearms training facility. After parking, the two rangers made for the “clubhouse.”

Once inside, Zach heard the booming voice of the man he was looking for long before he saw him. “I don’t care if the bullets are made of kryptonite; the republic isn’t paying that much for training rounds!”

The two rangers rounded a corner and found Captain Raymond Vickers bellowing into a cell phone, one arm spread wide in protest. “We don’t need ballistic penetration! I don’t give a horse’s ass if the damn things will take out a battle tank. It only has to punch through paper. This is an educational facility, damn it, not a battleground.”

Zach and Sam stood back, trying to let the busy man know their unscheduled visit wasn’t any sort of emergency. They didn’t have to wait long, the training officer ending his call with, “Fine. That will work. Yes. Yes, that’s within my budget.”

Vickers turned and faced the two rangers, his demeanor changing immediately. “Ranger Bass, Ranger Temple,” he began with a hearty grin. “To what do we owe the honor?”

Zach extended his hand, the burly instructor vigorously pumping the tall ranger’s limb. Sam received an identically enthusiastic greeting, the female ranger trying desperately not to show the pain that surged through her arm.

Captain Vickers was what Zach had once described as a “thick, steel-reinforced, brick wall” of a man. Barely six foot in height, the ex-Green Beret was powerfully built across the shoulders and chest. Yet, as he had demonstrated to countless cadets, the officer was extremely nimble and unbelievably quick. He was also one of the best shooters in the Western world.

“We’re sorry to interrupt your day, Captain, but Ranger Temple and I are working on a case involving automatic weapons. We decided to seek the input of an expert … if you have a few minutes?”

“Sure,” replied the training officer. “How can I help?”

The two rangers went on to explain the situation. “We assume most of the cartel’s serious foot soldiers are ex-military. Recently, their operations have been planned and executed more like an infantry platoon than a bunch of street thugs. So would it be worth a lot of money and risk to upgrade to full auto blasters? Would it really buy them that much?”

Vickers nodded his understanding. “The short answer is no; it would not. Switching the average battle rifle to full auto may be fun, but the truth is that most professional soldiers rarely use that option. Back in the day when I served with the teams, we would have gotten our asses chewed for doing such a thing in all but the rarest of circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Sam asked.

“Suppressive fire is the most common. Trying to keep the enemy’s head down while friendlies maneuver for advantage. About the only other good reason to engage the ‘happy button’ is if you’re about to be overrun. Even then, it had better be a pretty dire situation.”

Sam still wasn’t convinced. “Why? What is the big drawback? It would seem like pumping a lot of bullets at a foe would be the smart thing to do?”   

“Come on, I’ll show you,” Vickers grinned. “Let me get one of our carbines. The rifle range won’t be occupied by a class for another hour.”

A few minutes later, the trio was strolling past the pistol and maneuver ranges, Vickers carrying an M4 rifle along with a handful of magazines.

After adorning safety glasses and ear protection, the instructor handed Sam the weapon.

“Take lane one and put three shots into center mass,” he commanded, pulling a timer from his belt. “I’ll record the spread.”

Having graduated from the academy a short time ago, Ranger Temple was up to the task. With smooth, graceful motions, she slammed a magazine home, racked the charging handle, shouldered the weapon, and fired.

Twice more the rifle roared, each shot less than a second apart. The lady ranger then flicked on the safety and glanced at her two male cohorts. “Well?”

“Nice shooting, Ranger Temple,” Vickers grinned. “I can tell you’ve received some expert instruction,” he winked. “You hit center mass three times in 2.2 seconds. Now, flip that weapon to full automatic and see how long it takes you to put three in the center on lane two.”

Again, Sam repeated her well-practiced routine. This time, an arch of spent brass flew from the ejection port as she sprayed five, then six, then four more shots in short bursts. While the paper target was peppered with several more holes, there were only three in the kill zone.

“I see what you mean,” Sam nodded, clearing the M4 and handing it back to Vickers. “The rifle vibrates against your shoulder and throws off your aim.”

“It took you nearly four seconds on full auto, Ranger Temple,” Vickers announced, checking his timer. “And you wasted half a magazine of ammunition inflicting the same basic hurt on the target. With a military unit that is engaged in battle, ammo is always precious. It goes so fast, and you never know when you’re going to be resupplied. That’s why the real pros don’t flick that joy button very often. It buys you little and can cost you a lot.”

“With an AK47, like the cartels typically use, spray and pray throws off your aim even more,” Zach added. “The barrel on most of those weapons tends to ride up even higher with each round.”

“Pretty soon, you’re shooting an anti-aircraft gun,” Vickers added.

“So why do so many people want fully automatic weapons?” Sam said, bafflement evident in her tone.

“People always want what they’re told they can’t have. Like I said before, there are some practical uses in a combat zone or when facing a larger force. But those circumstances are rare.”

After taking a few minutes to thank their old instructor, Zach and Sam headed for the parking lot.

“Okay, I get what you’re saying now,” Sam admitted. “So what can the cartel possibly be after here in Texas? And even if it is automatic rifles, they can buy those just about anywhere and have them shipped in. What does the republic have that they want so badly?”

“I don’t know,” Zach replied, obviously troubled by the entire affair. “If I were going to try to overthrow the government, then heavy weapons like tanks or artillery would be what I’d want. On the other hand, Chico may have been completely full of shit. I’m beginning to think we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”

The drive to San Antonio added to the ranger’s frustration. They hit Austin right at the peak of the afternoon rush hour, which equated to total gridlock.

The Texas capital had been experiencing enormous growth for nearly 30 years before the secession. High-tech companies had found a welcoming home in the centrally located city, some going so far as to refer to Austin as the “Silicon Valley of the Southwest.”

At the edge of the Texas Hill Country, with a dryer climate than Houston or Dallas, the old state capital’s booming growth had led to numerous infrastructure issues. The city struggled to expand highways, surface roads, sewage, and water treatment as the population kept increasing at double-digit rates.

After the secession, that frantic rate of growth nearly doubled, bringing twice as many problems along with it.

“How do these people deal with this every day?” Sam asked, peering around at 10 lanes of interstate that currently resembled a mall parking lot at Christmas.

“I ask myself that same question nearly every time we drive through here,” Zach grumbled. “This reminds me of the few times I visited Washington, DC. I remember sitting in traffic and asking myself why would people choose this lifestyle? Is being so close to the seat of power really worth spending a quarter of your life stuck in gridlock?”

Sam pointed toward the distant skyline, which was monopolized by new high-rise office towers and dozens upon dozens of construction cranes. “Given everything they’re building, I bet this is going to get even worse.”

Grunting, Zach responded, “You know, I looked at housing down here not long ago. Unbelievable. It was like I was shopping for an apartment in New York or San Francisco. The prices have skyrocketed like crazy.”

“And only because the political power base is here,” Sam noted. “I guess Texas isn’t all that much different than the U.S.A., no matter how hard we try to pretend we are different.”

“Supply and demand,” Zach nodded. “I hear Houston, Dallas, and just about every other larger town has the same issues. The cost of housing used to be one of Texas’s primary draws. Before the split, we were always ranked among the best in affordability. Now, with all of the immigrants flooding in and the new construction, demand is driving the cost up everywhere. A lot of people are pissed about it.”

“Maybe we should get out of law enforcement and into real estate speculation,” Sam teased, trying to offset the frustration of the delay.

“Naw,” Zach replied with a grin. “If I leave the rangers, I’m going to open a topless bar. That’s where the real money is. You’ve always got a job, by the way,” he winked.

“Thanks … I think.”

The next stop was ranger headquarters. Zach parked the vehicle, stretched back in his seat, and said, “You go in and fetch the equipment we need. I’ll stay out here.”

Sam thought it was odd. “You’re scared you’ll run into Major Putnam, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh.”

Zach coughed and began his repartee, “The republic is in a state of crisis right now. I’m sure the major has more important things to do than hear about our conjecture and theories. The rangers were founded by men who acted independently, made their own decisions in the field, and exercised their best judgment. That’s all we’re doing, Ranger Temple.”