by Joe Nobody
And now, he had to carry Hinton’s casket to the waiting hearse. Now, he had to walk past his peers, the grieving family, and the host of state officials attending the funeral.
Like so many times before, Zach considered resigning from the rangers. It seemed like every time he gained a level of comfort with his role in law enforcement, some plot of fate would draw him out of that zone of contentment. It was crushing emotionally, a fact evidenced by his lackluster relationship with Cheyenne and a definite vacuum of friends.
Peering at the casket, it occurred to Zach that perhaps being his friend wasn’t compatible with having an extensive career and long life.
Sam appeared at his side just then, touching his shoulder with a supporting, concerned look in her eye. “You okay, Ranger Bass?”
“No,” came the honest response. “I was just standing here wallowing in a bottomless pool of self-pity and grief for a lost friend. You probably shouldn’t be seen associating with me.”
The lady ranger nodded, having already anticipated such a reaction. “You’re a good man and a good ranger, Zachariah Bass. There’s no one in this room that wouldn’t benefit from having you as a friend or a partner.”
“Except him,” Zach replied, indicating Hinton’s coffin with a slight dip of his head. “It didn’t end up so well for Buck.”
Rage flashed across Sam’s eyes. “His death wasn’t your fault. I knew those FBI jerks and their head games would get to you. Don’t let them… or anyone else get you down. I was there too, Zach. I was with you every step of the way, and you made the right calls all down the line. I don’t care what anybody says, I know the truth. In a few days, I’m going back to Arkansas with you… side by side. After they’re done throwing shit at you for taking risks and producing results, I’ll still hold my head up high when you introduce me as your partner.”
Zach had to smile at the fire in the lady ranger’s gut. Her words did make him feel better, not because of the bluster, but because he knew she was with him. All in. Every step of the way. There was nothing more anyone could ask of a partner.
Their conversation was interrupted by the funeral director’s appearance. “It’s time, sir. I’m asking all the pallbearers to gather by the deceased.”
Down the long aisle of the cathedral they trudged, Zach and five other rangers carrying Hinton’s remains. The sides were lined with tall, rugged lawmen, stoic to the core as they watched the processional.
Zach could feel their gazes, could sense their judgements as he passed, the cold bronze handle of the coffin pressing against his palm. He kept his eyes forward, avoided contact with anyone or anything. One foot in front of the other, the slow, measured pace of his last duty to an old friend.
Halfway to the door, an image appeared in the ranger’s mind, a pair of eyes that seemed to bore into Zach’s soul deeper than that of any of the gathered mourners. It was the Arab, the man he’d seen in Jerusalem and Arkansas.
By the time he’d reached the exit, a rage was building in Zach’s soul. He knew who was to blame. He knew who had to pay. The stranger. The magician. The man who had put it all in play.
Over 10,000 peace officers stood outside the cathedral, crisp in freshly pressed dress uniforms, there to pay their respects. A lone voice barked, “Attention,” and the ranks responded, a sea of stiff spines and squared shoulders.
Down the steps the pallbearers preceded, a metered descent for Hinton’s last ride.
At the back of the hearse, they paused, the same, lone voice barking a stalwart command. “Ready!”
The uniformed members of the gathering snapped to attention at the directive. “Aim!” the voice charged.
Despite their number, the gathered thousands fell completely silent as seven rifles moved in unison, their barrels pointing skyward while the honor guard awaited the final command.
And finally, “Fire!”
A volley of shots interrupted the silence of the Texas morning, the echo of the report rolling across the land.
After three rounds of salute, Zach and his comrades slid Hinton into the long, black vehicle’s interior and stepped away.
Four mounted horsemen led the motorcade, the flags of the Republic and the Texas Rangers limp in the unmoving air. Heightening the melancholy mood, the hearse inched forward, followed by a riderless horse.
A distant roar sounded in the east, a formation of four fighter jets flying low over the massive crowd. At precisely the scripted moment, one of the aircraft pulled out of the array, indicating the missing man.
All eyes returned to the slowly rolling procession, watching as it became smaller in the distance.
The actual burial was to be a private affair reserved for Hinton’s family – the official part of the services now concluded.
Zach didn’t say a word to anyone, making a straight line for his truck. He paused only when the sound of rushing footsteps indicated someone was trying to catch up with his long stride.
Pivoting with a harsh rejection for whoever it was, he paused. Sam was there, an innocent look on her face.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone harsher than intended.
“I’m at my partner’s side when he needs me the most,” she replied, undaunted by his severe attitude. “It’s in the ranger handbook.”
Ghost lowered the binoculars and nodded to his comrade. “This is the place. It’s perfect. We will move tonight.”
“If you say so, boss. I thought the last one would’ve worked, but you’re the ringmaster in this circus.”
For a moment, Ghost studied his comrade, making double sure the man’s ill-timed humor was genuine. One never knew with Garret De Lange.
They had served in the Legion together, eating the same mud and dodging the same bullets on three continents. Now, like so many of their unit, Garret worked for himself.
They had been stalking the foothills along the Turkish – Syrian border for three days; scouting, evading, and studying the forces on both sides.
Turkey didn’t like having a 40,000 strong foreign invader on her southern border… especially one that had been unpredictable and operated unilaterally. Within a week of Texas setting up semi-permanent positions less than a mile from the NATO member’s territory, the politicians in Ankara had ordered the country’s significant military to respond.
Now, separated only by a few kilometers of terrain, the two armies eyed each other warily. It was a powder keg just waiting to explode, and Ghost intended to light the fuse.
The ex-Legionnaire had to admire the men who commanded the Republic’s forces. During his observations of the last few days, he’d found the units deployed along the border well positioned and very disciplined.
But there was always a weakness.
The Texans had been in Syria for nearly a month and a half. During that time, ISIS had mounted only two utterly ridiculous attacks.
The first had been championed by a fringe mullah operating mostly on his own. In a fit of religious fervor, the man had gathered a few hundred of his loyal militia and convinced them that Allah would grant the faithful victory. The gun barrels of Texas had disagreed.
A radical among radicals, he had ordered his men to drive their rickety, rattletrap collection of pickup trucks and third-hand taxis to the Lone Star Nation’s lines. There, in a scene fitting a Hollywood movie, they had formed a skirmish line and charged toward the minefield buffering the infidel’s superior position.
Only three of the Texas tanks had engaged, their massive guns and multiple machine guns shredding the unorthodox cavalry charge in a matter of seconds. Not a single caliphate vehicle managed the minefield, let alone the invader’s line. There were no ISIS survivors.
For days, the television news broadcasted images of the carnage. Muslims around the world were outraged by the video beamed into their living rooms. It wasn’t the burning hulks of smoking passenger cars, nor the body count that caused offense. No, it was the flocks of vultures, buzzards and other carrion-eating birds feasting on th
e abandoned corpses that generated such insult. Muslim tradition dictated that the dead be buried before the passing of 24 hours. Texas refused to allow anyone near its lines. No exceptions.
The second attempt to engage the invaders had been sanctioned by the caliphate. Four captured Iraqi artillery pieces were towed to within striking distance of the Texas lines. On command, they fired the first salvo of what was to be an extensive barrage.
As the first four shells arced toward their targets, counter-battery radar detected the incoming ordnance. At the speed of light, computer chips calculated not only the impact zone but also the exact position of the originating guns.
As a warning siren sent Texas troopers scrambling for cover, eight computer-controlled rockets launched toward the attacking artillery.
The ISIS reloaders had just closed the breach on their second round when the missiles arrived, destroying the guns, crew, ammunition trucks, and a group of nearby gawkers. For hours, the Texas lines were entertained by the distant rumble of 155mm rounds cooking off in the subsequent fires.
There had been no additional military actions.
That wasn’t to say that ISIS faded quietly into the night.
A parade of media propaganda events became the radical’s weapon of choice. Countless civilians were brought before the camera crews, mostly elderly men and desperate women with crying children balanced on their hips. “My mother is on her deathbed in Turkey, and the Texans won’t let me past to visit her,” grumbled one woman.
“I was in Syria for a relative’s wedding,” stated another old gent. “Now, I cannot return home. My family is starving without me.”
On and on the sob stories continued – displaced, miserable innocents whose lives had been ruined by the invasion. And it wasn’t just the Syrian side of the border that was suffering.
Villagers in Turkey were interviewed, complaining about a host of atrocities inflicted by the presence of the infidels that had closed the border. One man couldn’t get feed for his cows. Another woman’s shop was about to close due to a lack of customers.
None of this affected Ghost.
After his meeting with Abu in Cypress, he’d set about hiring a small team of professional contractors. All of the mercenaries were men he’d worked with before. All had significant combat experience.
Their insertion into Syria had been simple. Crossing the foothills at night, they’d encountered no issues. The Texans were deployed to prevent bootleg oil from moving north, not small teams from traveling south.
Raising the powerful optic to his eyes one last time, Ghost reaffirmed his decision. “Yes,” he declared to De Lange, “this is the spot. By tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be back in Istanbul, sipping coffee, and counting our money.”
Ghost led his team of six through the rocky outcrops, the small group looking like some kind of alien hit squad. Electronic goggles protruded from their faces, the devices conjuring visions of some sort of super-sized intergalactic insect.
The image was enhanced by their oddly shaped heads, and thick, bulging torsos, the result of a full combat load and the same Kevlar helmets worn by the Texas military.
Ghost had carefully selected their kit. Despite a host of personal preferences when it came to battle rifles, all of the men under his command were now carrying M4 carbines. All were loaded with the exact ammunition issued to the 7th Cavalry troopers they now approached.
The listening post had been poorly positioned, at least as far as the Arab was concerned. The Texas commanders had been forced to redeploy their troops after the arrival of the Turkish divisions to the north. That and a general atmosphere of boredom had most likely resulted in one of the few mistakes he’d discovered.
The blind spot wasn’t apparent to the casual observer, nor was the distance between the small nests of Texas infantry. But Ghost had spotted such flaws right away, and now he was going to take advantage.
With De Lange and another contractor, Ghost crawled forward, each knee and elbow carefully placed so as not to generate any sound. Finally, he crept to the lip of a rise, staring down into the Texans’ fighting hole.
As expected, he identified three men below. One was openly smoking, the red hue of the ember competing with another soldier’s cell phone display. Ghost shook his head at the lack of discipline. The guy was listening to music, the cord of the earphones clearly visible in the device’s blue glow.
Their slack posture wasn’t a huge shock. Like all armies, keeping soldiers engaged during times of lackluster activity was a challenge. It also fit – such nighttime, remote guard duty often used as punishment by frustrated sergeants and officers.
On cue, Ghost and his two comrades jumped onto the unaware men below. Rather than knives or firearms, the attackers were wielding hypodermic needles filled with a quick-reacting mixture of opiates.
Two minutes later, bound, gagged, and completely intoxicated with the drug, the three Texans were hauled out of the pit on the shoulders of Ghost and his men. Two more of the mercenaries retrieved the abducted soldier’s weapons, ammunition, and any useful equipment left behind.
Ghost’s small column then headed north for Turkey.
The journey was a strain, each of the team taking turns carting the unresponsive Texans. The effort was made even more difficult by the terrain. Rocky foothills rose from the Syrian plains into a steep mountain range. With the additional weight and equipment, the hired operators struggled with the burden.
The border crossing was uneventful, the region sparsely populated with only a few tiny hamlets and the occasional simple homestead. As their altitude increased, human contact became even less of a concern.
Ghost sent out a scout as they approached the Turkish lines. Unlike the Texans, the NATO Army stationed in the foothills hadn’t deployed into defensive positions or built any sort of fortifications.
If the village had a name, Ghost didn’t know it. What it did have, much to his surprise, was a hookah lounge… or at least a primitive version of such a gathering spot.
While a far cry from the ornate, highly popular establishments in the country’s larger cities, Ghost had spotted all of the traditional elements, including the bongs and piped-in Arabic music of flute and horn. The Turkish Army officers from the nearest garrison were probably surprised by its presence as well.
And, with tens of thousands of troops recently deployed on the border, business was booming.
As Ghost and his team hauled their deadweight cargo closer, the ruckus of voices, laughter, and song drifted through the Turkish night. After dropping the Texans’ bodies at a predetermined position, the mercenaries began positioning the unconscious Republic of Texas troopers as per Ghost’s instructions.
It took them a good 10 minutes to prop the bodies upright. One of the soldiers moaned, another refused to settle in any position other than fetal. It was frustrating work, but Ghost insisted on every detail being perfect.
And finally, they were ready. With one of his men adjacent to each of the captured soldiers, Ghost removed two grenades from his vest. “Going hot,” he whispered, and then heaved the deadly device into the crowded lounge.
A scream, shouts, and then a muffled “Whoop,” disturbed the Turkish night.
For a brief moment, Ghost thought the grenade had been too potent and killed or injured everyone inside. That fear was short-lived; however, as after a few seconds the front door burst open and Turkish soldiers started spilling out into the streets.
The contractors, lying prone next to the still-drugged Texans, began firing into the confused, milling crowd of green-uniformed Turks. Absolute mayhem erupted.
It took longer than Ghost expected for the ambushed soldiers to regroup and begin returning fire. Eventually, a reasonable rate of incoming rounds began ricocheting off the surrounding rocks and desert.
“It’s time to egress,” Ghost shouted in English, making sure his command was overheard. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
While three of his men placed the still
-smoking M4 rifles next to the Texans, three others sprayed fire here and there in order to keep the ever-increasing number of responders at bay.
The contractors began to back away, using suppressive fire where necessary. When they had retreated just over 10 meters, Ghost pulled the pin on the second grenade and tossed it into the midst of the Texas troopers. Then the mercenaries began racing for Syria, but not too fast.
The Turkish Army chased Ghost and his men. When they finally reached the border, the team of seven professional shooters had to slow down in order to let their pursuers catch up.
Ghost smiled when after a pause, the closest Turkish platoon crossed into Syria. With a nod to his men, the hired guns then made fast and hard for the Texas lines.
Four hundred meters away from the nearest Lone Star outpost, they diverted hard 90 degrees to the west. It took the hired gunmen a few minutes to find the small crevice that had been their predetermined hide. They then watched as the Turkish troops passed by, an angry, motivated rifle platoon that was blinded by the need for revenge.
Ghost listened eagerly for the pursuing soldiers to run into the Republic’s lines. He didn’t have to wait long.
Gunfire erupted a few minutes later, the Texans unsure who was approaching their position or why. Believing their comrades had bumbled into an ambush, more and more Turkish infantry poured into the fight. In less than 30 minutes, a pitched battle was raging in the Syrian foothills.
“Time to go,” Ghost whispered to De Lange. “We’ve ignited the fuse, but I don’t want to hang around and watch the powder keg explode.”
It was over an hour before commanders of both sides of the skirmish got things under control. In that time, Turkey counted 41 dead and over 60 wounded. Texas had six flag-draped coffins, not including the three dead soldiers still in Turkish custody.
Turkey, her people, and her allies were outraged. An emergency meeting of NATO was called, the treaty’s mutual defense clauses invoked by the event along the Syrian border.