The Surge - 03 (3 page)

His mind, however, rejected the urge to give up. From some deep corner of his consciousness swelled a seething anger, a rage that provided the fuel to continue the struggle. He forced his numb, exhausted legs to take another step … to square his shoulders and hold up his head. He was a leader. He was an officer. He would set the example.

That wave of motivation had nothing to do with pride, honor, or reputation. Yes, he was a Republic of Texas Marine. Over and over again, it had been pounded into his heart, mind, and soul that quitting wasn’t an option. Real fighting men didn’t give up. The Corps didn’t allow such thinking. He was an officer, sworn to leave nothing behind  … to lay it all out … to carry on until the final breath was expelled from his aching lungs.

All of that sounded great on the parade ground, obstacle course, and in the classroom. Bravado and esprit de corps were attributes that had made the Marine Corps so attractive in the first place. He was a highly motivated individual who wanted to surround himself with like-minded men.

In a single day, Eagle’s Nest Creek had evaporated all of the comradery, bluster, and starch from his core. None of it served to move his legs; none of it mattered anymore.   

No, what did give him strength was more of a personal nature – he wasn’t going to let that son of a bitch gunny win.

His thoughts were interrupted with yet another halt to the struggling column’s forward progress. “Movement, ahead,” came the whispered voice of his lead element over the radio. “Multiple contacts.”

“Jesus Wilson Roosevelt Christ,” the officer hissed, moving toward the front of the column. “Aren’t the terrain and heat enough, Gunny? Now you’ve got to fuck with us some more?” 

The first gunshots actually didn’t surprise the LT. It was just like that three-striped old bastard to send in some of his buddies, armed with blanks, to mess with the trainees. 

When the man beside the lieutenant fell to the ground clutching his chest, it was the first indication that something was terribly wrong.

The incoming volume of fire intensified – rock chips, sand, and zipping rounds creating havoc among the Marines. While they were carrying their weapons, only the LT’s pistol had live ammunition … for snakes. This was a training exercise. His men were unarmed … as helpless as infants in their cribs.

Multiple weapons were now spraying the line of soldiers with deadly fire. Cries of pain and agony echoed off the canyon’s walls, competing with curses and shouts of confusion.

Men were screaming, diving for cover, or frozen where they stood. No one knew what was happening. Why were people shooting at them? Why were their friends falling bloodied to the desert floor?

A few men shouted, “Republic of Texas Marines!” hoping the incoming hailstorm of bullets was a case of mistaken identity.  Others stared at their commander, waiting with eager faces for his orders.

Suddenly, it all became crystal clear to the shocked officer. They had run into smugglers or criminals – armed intruders who thought his men were some sort of law enforcement patrol.

“Fall back! Fall back!” the officer shouted over the chaos as he reached for his sidearm.  “Fall back!”

The lieutenant caught a glimpse of a muzzle flash right as another of his command was cut down. He was shocked at how calm his mind seemed to be. The muscle strain and exhaustion had disappeared from his body; his hands were steady.

The shadowy outline of the shooter was clear now. Centering the front post of his .45, he fired two shots and felt a sense of relief when the foe went down.

Movement drew the officer’s eye, a strobe of muzzle flashes chasing another Marine as he scurried for better cover. The LT fired, again and again, his finger working the trigger until the enemy’s body shifted its direction and dove for the ground.

The rock next to the LT’s head exploded with stone-shrapnel and chips. The officer was stunned as he realized the shooter was the first man he’d taken down.
Body armor? These guys were wearing body armor!

The officer knew his handgun wouldn’t penetrate Kevlar. That meant his unit was completely defenseless. “Fall back!” he screamed again, turning to run. “Fall back!”

Searing, red-hot pain erupted across the LT’s back, his legs no longer answering his brain’s command to run. His last vision was the ground rushing toward his face, and then the world exploded in a shower of white, streaking light.

“What the fuck is that idiot lieutenant doing, Gunny?” the captain asked for the third time, scanning toward the last known position of his men. “Who the hell is shooting? I didn’t authorize any live fire or dummy rounds!”

“I don’t know, sir, but I think we’d better call in some help.”

The senior officer hesitated, listening intently as the thunder of gunfire rolled through the matrix of canyon walls. There was another sound as well.

Finally, it dawned. “They’re screaming like a bunch of schoolgirls, Sergeant. What the hell?”

The NCO heard the secondary noise as well, but his ear had the benefit of experience. After surviving multiple tours in two different wars wearing the U.S. uniform, he knew immediately that the training platoon was in serious trouble.

“Those are the screams of wounded men, sir. I don’t think it’s our people doing the shooting. Call for help, Captain. Right now!”

As the bewildered officer fumbled for his cell phone, Gunny was racing for the bed of the Corps-issued pickup. Pulling back a heavy tarp, he extracted an M4 carbine. In a flash, a magazine appeared in his hand, slamming into the weapon with an audible clank. That action was immediately followed by the mechanical racking of the rifle being charged. Gunny never left the base unarmed.

The sergeant appeared at the captain’s side just as the officer’s frantic phone call was answered by the base operator. In a rushed voice, “Get me the base commander… now… we’re taking fire.”

The Marine answering the phones was confused. “Who is this? Buddy, do you know it’s a crime to prank call a military institution?”

By the time the officer had explained the situation, the distant gunfire had stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. The two Marines on the ridge exchanged worried looks. “I’m waiting for someone to find the CO,” the captain whispered, blocking the cell’s mic with his cupped hand.

Exasperated, the gunny reached for his own cell phone, punching 9-1-1 with enough force that he nearly shattered the smartphone’s screen.

“Sheriff’s Department, state the nature of your emergency.”

Gunny did his best to explain the events of the last 10 minutes to the operator. To say the dispatcher was confused would have been an understatement.

At about the same time as the captain was finally connected to the new base’s commander, gunny was transferred to a watch supervisor and had to start the entire explanation all over again. The frustration was evident in both men’s voices as they pleaded for assistance … any sort of help.

Both calls ended at about the same moment.

“Val Verde County is sending a SWAT team and a copter,” the sergeant informed his commander.

“The base commander is sending armed MPs and scrambling some Blackhawks,” the officer announced. “Can we get over there?” he asked, looking at the sergeant’s loaded weapon. “How long would it take us to reach them?”

“There’s no way, sir. There are two slot canyons between them and us. It would take at least two hours if the platoon made good time. I recommend we drive back up to the main road and wait for the cavalry to arrive. We can lead them in from there, maybe hitch a ride on one of the incoming birds.”

The captain had never experienced anything like the frustration that surged through his being. The feeling of helplessness was bitter, filling his mouth with the foul taste of bile. Yet, he knew the sergeant was right. They would have to wait. There was simply no way for him to reach the men. It was maddening.

A minute later, their pickup was bouncing down the dirt path, neither man in the cab seeming to notice the jarring ride.

They made it to Highway 90 and turned to the southeast. It was only a short distance to the bridge that crossed Eagle’s Nest Creek.

They parked alongside the road with no other course of action than to sit and wait for reinforcements. Clearly concerned about their comrades, their anxious glances constantly alternated between the land to the south where their men were likely wounded and the horizon where the military’s birds were expected.

It was the sergeant who first spotted the blinking lights on the skyline. Both men watched with eager anticipation as the law enforcement helo diverted toward the coordinates gunny had provided earlier. A moment later, the flashing strobes of a squad car came into view as a deputy rushed toward their location.

The helicopter’s searchlight switched on just as the police car pulled alongside the two waiting Marines. After a quick exchange, all eyes returned to the sky and watched as the helicopter began searching.

It only took the pilots three minutes to find the missing platoon, the discovery confirmed over the deputy’s radio. “We’re going to need medivac,” the pilot’s worried voice radioed back. “A lot of medivacs… and a lot of help. We’ve got bodies strewn all over the ground down there.”

Zach watched his partner rush into the diner, a thick newspaper and thermos tucked under Samantha’s arm.

“You’re late,” he stated with a smirk. Nodding at the birdcage liner, he continued, “Get caught up in a good story?”

She ignored him, tossing the edition on the table and then holding out the thermos to an approaching waitress. “I need this filled with hot tea, please. And an egg … over hard … and two slices of sourdough toast with margarine, not butter.”

“You seem a little flustered, Ranger Temple,” Zach grinned.

“Your powers of observation are legendary, bordering on the supernatural, Ranger Bass,” the female officer answered sarcastically. “I’m surprised somebody hasn’t based a comic book on you,” she continued, reaching for the chair. She paused as she sneered at her mental image of the Justice League’s newest member, SuperBoy in Blue. Her mind’s picture of Zach in cobalt tights and cape complete with silver star, boots and cowboy hat tickled her greatly. She covered her smile with her hand and coughed to disguise her amusement. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” she said, pivoting in the direction of the restroom.

After watching her disappear, Zach flipped the newspaper around. It was a two-day-old edition of the New York Times with a headline that read, “Texas Police Prepare for Bloodbath.”

“What the hell is Sam doing with this rag?” he mused, tossing a glance again at the ladies room door. “I’m going to have a word with her later.”

Tilting back the broad brim on his western hat, the ranger began reading:

In three days, the Treaty of Secession will celebrate its 2-year anniversary. As per the terms of the controversial agreement that created the world’s newest republic, several grandfathered U.S. laws will expire.

One of the most controversial is the Federal Firearms Act of 1938, which among other things, restricts the general public from purchasing fully automatic weapons. Three days ago, after a lengthy debate, the Texas legislature passed a new law that will allow such weapons to be purchased by the citizenry.

Within the Lone Star Nation, there has been widespread pushback over the effectiveness and necessity of creating an equivalent of America’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, or ATF as it is commonly known. The ATF is the primary agency charged with enforcing the 1938 act in the United States and her territories.

“We’re preparing our officers for the worst,” stated Captain Anthony Morse of the Austin Police Department. “Every bank robber, gang banger, mental case, and violent felon will now be able to acquire weapons that can spray 30 bullets in a less than three seconds.”

“Anyone can already acquire that category of weaponry,” countered Jack Kimpel, president of the Texas Rifle Association. “Between illegal imports, homegrown modifications, and bump-fire accessories, the street’s capability to shoot a lot of lead won’t be significantly enhanced. Even in the US, with its thick reams of 20,000 pages of gun control laws, criminals can unleash a hailstorm of bullets.”

The debate raging across our nation’s southern neighbor extends far beyond Class 3 weapons. Gun control encapsulates the controversy that is tearing at the very fabric of Texas’s fight for independence.

Terms such as “bloated government,” or “authoritarian encroachment on individual liberties,” were commonly spouted by Texas’s elected officials who supported merely allowing the 1938 law to expire without any regulation whatsoever. Eventually, the “small government” factor won, arguing that the creation of such federal agencies as the ATF was a waste of taxpayer money and an infringement on the individual citizen’s Second Amendment rights.

In fact, one of the few modifications made to Texas’s version of the U.S. Constitution was a clarification to the Second Amendment. The vague wording originally penned by the Founding Fathers had resulted in numerous cases before the Supreme Court and led to countless hours of heated social discourse. The fledgling new republic vowed not to make the same mistake.

Yet, despite the much-touted clarification, there were still issues.

“We can’t let every citizen possess nuclear weapons,” commented one Senator. “There have to be limits. The term ‘weapons of mass destruction,’ is fine on paper, but what exactly does that mean? Where do we draw the line?”

Even those who strongly supported the Second Amendment were divided by the issue.

“Do we allow everyone to possess rocket launchers? Fully armed battle tanks? Caches of high explosives? Belt-fed weapons? Chemical or biological mortar rounds?” asked the Republican mayor of Dallas during a recently televised debate. “Active shooters in Texas won’t walk into the theater with a handgun or rifle. They’ll flatten the entire building using C4 explosives, or unleash a canister of mustard gas in the food court. If Austin doesn’t do something, we will have complete bedlam in less than 60 days.”

The controversy runs deep throughout the Lone Star nation and not just in the major cities or along party lines. From the arid west to the great pine forests of the east, the issue has long divided local governments, friends, and families, as well.

In stark contrast to her father’s position on the issue, Carla Simmons, the daughter of the republic’s first president, leads one of the country’s largest gun control lobbies. “My dad and I normally agree on most things, but not this. I want our citizens armed and free, but there have to be limits and controls. We risk absolute anarchy if everyone has unlimited firepower.”

In the end, the Texas legislature reached a compromise. Automatic weapons below a certain caliber will soon become legal, as will short-barreled weapons and noise cancelation devices, commonly called “silencers.” A background check will be enforced, and safety training is required. But as long as a citizen doesn’t have any history of mental illness or a felony conviction, purchasing machine guns is legal.

“It’s a start,” TRA President Kimpel commented. “Even in Texas, we have to compromise now and then.”

Zach, sensing Sam’s return, stopped reading. She was just in time for her eggs and toast.

“Why are you reading this liberal fish wrapper? I didn’t know they were even allowed to peddle this crap in Texas anymore.”

“You can sell anything in our great nation,” she grimaced, pulling a knife full of yellow spread across her toast. “Including automatic weapons, hand grenades, and flame throwers.”

Shrugging, Zach retorted, “Flame throwers have always been legal. Just saying.”

Sam’s butter knife returned to the table with just a little more force than necessary. “You know what I mean. Stop being a smartass for just one minute and listen to me. I’m worried about this. Damn worried. My mom has been calling me every day, sure that I’m going to go down in a barrage of gunfire at any moment.”

“That could happen with or without a new law,” he replied calmly. “Besides, we’re Texas Rangers, invincible, above politics and corruption, fearless protectors of the innocent, and relentless pursuers of villainous humanity.”

“I don’t feel invincible, and sure as shit, I’m not fearless,” she angrily retorted. “Maybe I shouldn’t be a ranger.”

Shaking his head, Zach said, “Now stop that. You’re a damn fine peace officer. I couldn’t ask for a better partner…. Well, maybe one that wasn’t always so quarrelsome … but a man can’t have everything. Anyway, I’ll bet you a cup of coffee that we won’t notice any difference after the old law expires. Other than the occasional yahoo spraying a few magazines into the air on New Year’s Eve, things will be just like they are now.”

Sam didn’t reply, her focus now on wolfing down the eggs and toast. After a quick glance at his watch, Zach understood her rush. Time to go.

Five minutes later, the two lawmen were rolling out of Alpine, Zach’s government-issue pickup heading west. They were just accelerating up an entrance ramp when Sam pointed out the window, “Check out that gun store over there.”

Zach glanced over, seeing a recently added banner draped across the front of the establishment. “Open All Night on Freedom Eve,” it declared in bold letters. “Full Autos Will Be In Stock!”

“Ahhh, capitalism and free enterprise,” Zach grunted. “Don’t you just love democracy?”

“Once that genie is out of the bottle, there’s no going back,” she snapped. “I can’t believe you’re being so flippant about this.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” he said. “Unless you want to resign and move to the United States … or Mexico … or wherever. I’m telling you, it’s not going to be any big deal.”

Sam thumped the newspaper still draped across her lap. “A lot of cops disagree with you on that.”

“With all due respect to our brother peace officers, we both know they can be a bunch of Chicken Littles, running around shouting about a falling sky. I sometimes wonder why they choose to be cops. Do you remember a few years back, right before the secession, when the state of Texas passed the open carry law?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, with vile, knowing where her partner was headed.

“Do you recall all the hubbub? All the police departments waiting for the avalanche of 9-1-1 calls? A lot of these same guys were predicting incidents out the wazoo, like accidental shootings, cops not being able to respond to legitimate calls because they were chasing down ‘man with a gun buying ice cream’ reports. All of the universities were shouting to the high heavens that anarchy was going to envelop our academic institutions. Do you remember all that crap?”

Sam suddenly found the truck’s floorboard interesting.

“Do you?” Zach, on a roll, wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

“Yes,” she finally answered, but not willing to concede the issue. “But this is different, Zach.”

“How?”

The debate was interrupted by the jingle of Zach’s mobile phone. He glanced at the cell’s display and then flashed the screen to his partner. “It’s never good when the major calls before sunrise,” Sam whispered.

“Ranger Bass,” Zach greeted as if he was too busy to glance at the caller ID.

Sam observed as her partner listened intently, his face curling into a full-blown scowl after only a few moments.

“We’re on our way, sir. We’re about four hours out,” Zach replied in a voice laced with both pain and anger.

Zach didn’t need directions to find the scene of the crime. For the last 20 miles, he and Sam had watched a constant stream of helicopters coming, going, and orbiting the location.

“It looks like somebody kicked a hornet’s nest,” he informed the lady ranger. “And a huge nest at that.”

During the drive down, they’d listened to police radio traffic, as well as a news station whose signal was picked up on the truck’s satellite receiver. None of the information streaming across the airwaves was good. One reporter was already referring to the incident as the “Langtry Massacre.”

The duo’s first encounter on the ground was a Texas Highway patrol officer manning a roadblock designed to keep nosey civilians away. He recognized Zach before the ranger had rolled to a stop.

“Morning, officer,” Zach hailed as he lowered the window. “Good to see you again, Trooper Reeves…. Well, sort of.”

“I hear we’ve got one hell of a mess down there,” the patrolman stoically replied. “Not good. Not good at all.”

“I hear the same,” Zach responded. “I guess I’d better go earn my pay … see if we can help.”

“You’ve got plenty of company, Ranger. We’ve got military, civilian, LEO from three counties, and I even let some yahoo from President Simmons’s office through a little bit ago.”

“Thanks, trooper. See ya later.”

They were stopped twice more, Zach’s silver-peso badge quickly gaining them access. Since the secession, the rangers were the republic’s equivalent of the FBI, technically the highest law enforcement authority in the land.

Finally, Zach maneuvered the pickup to the epicenter of the massive response. A huge, flat area outside of Langtry had been converted into a makeshift airport. Dust and exhaust fumes fouled the air, both a product of the near fleet of aircraft that had descended on the sleepy burg.

There were ambulances, ROTMC vehicles, and a sea of blue emergency lights - even a pair of battle tanks bordering the lane. Sam, noting the number of armed Marines running around and other war-fighting hardware observed, “My gosh! It’s like we’ve been invaded.”

“From what we’ve heard so far, that’s probably not far off the mark. I just hope those guys don’t get trigger-happy. I know they’re itching for payback. Hell, we would be too if someone had bushwhacked a bunch of rangers. Still, it would be best if cooler heads prevailed sooner rather than later.”