by Joe Nobody
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.”
Watts stiffened at the statement, “Did you say 15 truckers? There were only 11 here on the bridge. What happened to the other four?”
“I don’t know that either, Sheriff. I do know that Jeb Hewitt, the man that recruited most of the drivers, also hired five security men. They were to … how did he phrase it? Oh, yes, they were to ride shotgun.”
Watts was notably displeased with the update. “I wish you had divulged that tidbit a little sooner, son. My men and I have been scratching our heads why we had 12 bodies, but only 11 trucks.”
Bishop exchanged knowing looks with Grim. The truckers had been nervous or warned of the hazards of making the trip. Hired guns had been enlisted to provide security, and some of them had been killed. Despite the precautions, the convoy had still lost vehicles and freight before reaching the Texas side of the river. Those facts shouted a message to men who understood combat, and it wasn’t comforting.
There were always rumors about life south of the Rio Grande, the SAINT teams having been exposed to snapshots here and there. Texas had even annexed one, small village during the Salt War.
What little information that did wander across the border was mixed. Some refugees claimed that the drug cartels had taken over certain regions of the country, terrorizing natives and commandeering whole settlements. Other Mexican citizens showed up with fresh vegetables and locally produced goods and were eager to barter and trade. In fact, rumor had it that Pete’s seemingly endless supply of coffee was via just such a relationship.
The Alliance’s agricultural breadbasket along the
Rio Grande had developed strong ties with similar farming operations just on the other side of the river. Most of the Mexican farms ventured north to sell their produce in exchange for fuel and other necessities.
Little was known of central and southern Mexico. Like so many distant lands, tales of ghastly suffering, tyrannical dictators, and brutal living conditions abounded. Over the lifespan of the apocalypse, folks tended to develop an immunity to such sagas. Facts were often exaggerated and embellished, bad news having always been more interesting than good. The line between grim reality and pure exaggeration was murky at best.
Yet, a broker representing the U.S. government had chanced a trip to Mexico and negotiated a deal with the people there. There must be some level of authority and control because the trailers had indeed been loaded and hitched to the semis. It was obvious from the charred remains scattered on the bridge that excess food was being grown and exported.
Bishop toured the truck boneyard, studying the scorched remains of the contents. The variety of foodstuffs was impressive. There were bags of rice, some sort of flour, and at least three different trailers full of corn ears. Whoever had selected the inventory knew what they had been doing, maximizing the number of calories per pound of freight, shipping items that wouldn’t easily spoil.
The scrape of a footstep interrupted the Texan’s survey.
“I don’t like this one bit,” Grim announced, walking up behind his commander.
“You and me both, brother. There has to be a small fortune in food here. I could understand the convoy being a prime target for banditos, but these trailers were torched after the ambush was over,” Bishop noted.
“And,” the Texan continued, stepping over to kick the grey ashes of a road flare with his boot, “charbroiling the food was planned from the start. Somebody didn’t want the U.S.A. getting this shipment. This was perpetrated by somebody who isn’t desperate, hungry, or a simple criminal. This was a political ambush from the get-go.”
The old warrior’s gaze worked up and down the gruesome line of trucks, “Even that doesn’t track though. If the highwaymen had a political agenda, why not take a hostage or two? Or line them up and execute the poor bastards? Hang them from the bridge? Watts said none of the bodies had been mutilated or disturbed, and we don’t have any evidence of captives being taken. It’s almost as if the people who did this were more upset with the food than the drivers. How is that political?”
Bishop nodded in silence, his only acknowledgment of Grim’s astute observations.
The two men continued trekking south, toward the Mexican side. At the apex of the bridge/dam, Bishop noted the large, brass plaque that marked the physical border and then turned to face the foreign, unknown horizon to the south.
Grim watched his friend closely, sensing a change in the man’s normally mellow demeanor. The seasoned contractor had seen it before … first a tightening of Bishop’s jawline, immediately followed by the slightest narrowing of the eyes. The weight shifted a bit forward to the balls of the Texan’s feet, his grip on the carbine tensing as every muscle grew taut, coiled for violence.
It was the eyes that bothered Grim the most. All humanity vanished from Bishop’s suddenly cold stare. There was no hint of intelligence, not a sign friendliness, reasoning, or curiosity. It was if the civilized person standing on the bridge had morphed into some sort of wild animal – a predator that was ready, willing, and fully capable of unleashing unspeakable ferocity. It was enough to send a shudder down even the most hardened man’s spine.
So intense was Bishop’s projection, Grim’s own mind sought to scan the surrounding area, thinking his boss had seen something … had detected some previously unnoticed threat.
A light breeze chose that moment to swell up from the south, its warmth flowing across their faces. “There’s trouble on that wind,” Bishop whispered to his friend. “I can feel it.”
Acknowledging that Watts and his unit had the crime scene under control, Bishop, Terri, and the team hitched a ride to the marina via two deputies and their SUVs.
“My mom warned me that I’d end up in the back of a police car if I hung out with you,” Terri teased.
“You know I was your mom’s favorite ‘child,’” Bishop responded with a grin.
“Her judgement went to hell in a handbasket after she became ill,” she countered.
Skirting the shoreline took a considerable amount of driving, the shimmering surface of the reservoir always visible in the distance. The melancholy feeling left by the carnage they had just witnessed was somewhat offset by the blue water, clear skies, and gentle breeze.
“I think a change of scenery will do us both good,” Bishop noted, his gaze fixed out the window at the lake. “I just hope our sleeping accommodations aren’t a letdown.”
“That’s always a crapshoot when traveling these days,” Terri said. “Heaven help us if there’s only a twin bed available, and we have to sleep in each other’s arms.”
Eventually, they pulled into the marina, a sign announcing Northshore Rentals and Boat Ramp. Like most post-collapse businesses, the place had obviously seen better days.
The two squad cars were met in the parking lot by a middle-aged woman who wore a large revolver on her belt and a semi-permanent scowl on her face. Bishop wasn’t sure if the pistol was a post-apocalyptic addition or not.
The first phrase that popped into Bishop’s mind as Hannah Lee Hogan introduced herself as the proprietor was “one tough, old bird.”
She was in her early 50’s, with wrinkled skin no doubt caused by years of exposure to the sun, wind, and cigarettes. She had the gravelly, sandpaper voice of a long-term smoker and the grit of a survivor.
Hannah Lee’s first statement was an apology. “I’m sorry, but some scoundrel made off with my best houseboat a few days ago. I knew I should have trusted my gut when he wanted to rent her. I kept asking myself why a single man would need such a big vessel, but he was insistent. He left me an ounce of gold and $500 in greenbacks as a deposit, but he never brought it back.”
“How big was the boat?” Bishop asked, scanning the nearby watercraft tied up along the piers.
“She was 52 feet stem to stern,” Hannah replied, pulling a drag from her hand-rolled cigarette. “We bought her three years before the collapse … right before the economy slid into the depression. My late husband and I lived on her for a while after the world went to hell. We anchored out in the lake until things settled down a bit.”
“And somebody rented it a few days ago but didn’t bring it back?” Terri inquired.
“Yes, sweetie. That’s exactly what that no-good man did. Always trust your gut, honey. Always.”
Bishop was interested now. “Was this fellow by himself?”
“Yup. He said he had some friends that were coming to the lake later,” Hannah answered, blowing out a grey cloud of exhaled smoke.
Terri’s eyes moved back to the lake, “Where would someone go with a stolen boat that big? I mean it’s not like they can just back up a pickup with a hitch and pull it out with a trailer.”
Hannah nodded, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll find it one of these days. It’s probably over on the Mexican side, being stripped to the bare bones even as we speak. They’ll take the engines, fuel, appliances, even the deck chairs and fishing poles. I’ll just have to suffer the loss and carry on. What choice do I have? I mean it’s not as if I can just file an insurance claim on the damages these days. You know? ”
Bishop and Terri exchanged a troubled look and conducted a hushed sidebar. “I think I know what the ambushers used for transportation now. A machine of that size would ferry a lot of riflemen,” Bishop reasoned.
Grim had caught on as well and continued the inquiry. “Had you ever seen this man before?”
“Nope,” Hannah declared. “He seemed nice enough, but something in the back of my mind kept telling me he was up to no good.”
Terri turned the conversation back to the present issue, “So there’s no place for
us to stay tonight?”
Hannah flashed at the mere suggestion that she couldn’t take care of her customers. “Oh my goodness, darling, of course, there is. That man took my biggest rental, but there is still Belle Blue. She’s only a 50-footer, but she’s plenty big for just the five of you. Come on, I’ll show you her accommodations.”
Indeed, Belle Blue was a fine craft with four staterooms, a well-equipped galley, and tons of comfortable seating. “I guess it’s called a houseboat for good reason,” Bishop chuckled. “Heck, this is bigger than our first house.”
Grim provided the next surprise, peppering Hannah with a series of questions about the mechanicals. After several inquiries about the engines, rudders, propellers, and how the proprietor had managed to keep the boat in such good condition, the old contractor announced, “I used to have a vessel a lot like this one. They don’t handle very well, but you don’t need an ocean-going hull just to putter around on the lake.”
“We have a captain!” Terri cheered. Bishop was noticeably relieved as well, hoping that his wife wasn’t actually expecting him to commandeer the boat out on the lake. He had no idea how to pilot such a machine.
Hannah was excited as well, “Thank God one of you knows how to handle this little dinghy. I was afraid you were going to ask me to do it, and I don’t have anyone to stay here and watch my place until my daughter returns.”
The deputies helped unload the team’s equipment, promising to return the following morning so Bishop and his men could finish the investigation by scouting the Mexican side of the bridge. Neither the Texan nor Grim expected to find anything, but duty was duty. Diana and the bigwigs in Alpha wanted to send a message to Washington that the Alliance was taking the matter seriously.
Bishop had just finished stowing his gear in the master stateroom when a massive splash sounded outside. Thinking someone had already managed to fall overboard, the Texan rushed to the outside deck while trying to remember if he’d seen any life preservers.
No sooner had he reached the rail than a quick shadow blocked out the sun, next a flash of something flying by, followed by another tremendous eruption of water.