The Western Front (Part 1 of 3) Read online



  THE

  WESTERN

  FRONT

  (part 1 of 3)

  Archer Garrett

  Copyright 2012 by Archer Garrett

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2012 Archer Garrett.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No Part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, copied or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  * * *

  Acknowledgements:

  1 Chron. 29:13

  My wife, for her patience during this project.

  * * *

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

  -Habakkuk 1:4

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue – Barrett

  Chapter 1 – Jake

  Chapter 2 – Clayton

  Chapter 3 – Jake

  Chapter 4 – William

  Chapter 5 – Barrett

  Chapter 6 – Jake

  Chapter 7 – Jake

  Chapter 8 – Jake

  * * *

  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  The south Texas sun had long since been replaced by the dull light of the harvest moon, but the day’s arid temperatures still lingered.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 mass 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 listened 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 leave out in two hours; be ready. We’ll locate, identify and engage the targets, if they’re 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 north, effectively blocking the only safe passage 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 assaults from the causeway and the pass, 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 God’s Country

  A mile into town, the Barrett’s radio squawked to life, “We’ve got company at our twelve up on the overpass. 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 pass, 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 overpass. They would occasionally slalom in the highway, as if the drivers anticipated 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 anticipation. 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 windshield 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 overpass.

  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 overpass, 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 overpass.

  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 hit 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 forecasted 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 God. 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 overpass again, “Negative on the casualties. We’re taking up a defensive position. I want you and your squad off that damn 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 trespass 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. Occasiona
lly 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 shift 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.