The Western Front - Parts 1-3 (Western Front Series)

by Archer Garrett

  Ch apter 13

  Barrett

  Brownsville, Texas

  Barrett listened as the sound of the Black Hawk faded into the east. He turned back towards the group. In a way, he thought, it was a joint mission. The twelve member squad was evenly selected from the guardsmen and the SEALs; six of each. The SEALs had the combat experience that was desperately needed, and the guards knew the area better than any. At this point, however, the six operators were probably considered former SEALs by their employer.

  Officially, Barrett was the squad leader, but he had deferred many of the leadership roles to Holt, the code name adopted by the young SEAL Lieutenant. Barrett had previously served as a SEAL, but never as a squad leader. To him, the most experienced person should lead. There was no room for ego in the field.

  They had been dropped on a small wooded island just north of the intersection of 77 and University Boulevard, in Brownsville. Their mission was to proceed southwest through the UT at Brownsville campus and the Fort Brown Memorial Golf Course, across the Rio Grande and into Matamoros, Mexico. Once in Mexico they would recon de Parque Olimpico; Olympic Park.

  Texan predator drones had recently picked up some unusual activity at the park. Semi-trucks had been observed hauling canopied loads into the area. An extensive array of large canvas hangars had begun to appear several days ago. The park more closely resembled the terminal areas of an airport, rather than a public green space.

  The trucks’ cargo would remain covered until they pulled under one of the hangars. Once unloaded, the trucks would leave empty. Whatever was being delivered was intended to be hidden from prying eyes.

  They spread out among the thicket in a wedge formation and rechecked their gear. Barrett listened for any sounds of movement nearby. The once-bustling city was eerily silent. Occasionally a vehicle could be heard speeding down the highway, most likely a member of the Z-G. Even Mexican nationals were rarely seen north of the border. The cartels had become increasingly violent, and it was not always targeted at the gringos. As bad as it was south of the border, just north of it was far worse. The northern incursion by the cartels had brought with it a scorched earth policy as they plundered the spoils of the American southwest.

  After several minutes of uneventful silence, they began to slowly move west to the short causeway that led off the island. They stayed off of the narrow asphalt pavement, preferring the concealment that the shadows afforded. Their night-vision allowed them to move easily through the heavy blanket of darkness that enveloped the city – a symptom of a failed, or rather an abandoned, power grid.

  As they left the wooded sanctuary of the island, the backdrop quickly changed to the deserted, low-class suburbs of south Brownsville. The squad navigated the block and took their second left onto East 24th Street.

  Barrett was horrified as he looked down the neighborhood street. Brownsville had obviously received the full burden of the violence. Most of the battered homes’ windows and doors were smashed and broken. Several houses had been reduced to smoldering ruins, and an occasional, mangled body lay in a yard or on the sidewalk.

  East 24th Street would have been dangerous to traverse had it not been for the numerous vehicles haphazardly abandoned in both lanes. The street had been selected as their route precisely due to the large number of discarded vehicles it contained. It would be impossible for the squad to be overtaken by a fast-moving truck full of banditos along the street.

  The bodies of his fellow countrymen particularly disturbed Barrett. The men and women that died in this place died for one reason, they could not afford to flee. As he passed the occasional body, he felt a strong sense of guilt. Perhaps there was more that they should have done. More evacuations, maybe forced evacuations? He did not know the answer. Ultimately, he knew that people were personally responsible for themselves and their families, but no one could have imagined the horrors of the tempest that had rolled across south Texas. Like a dust-bowl sand storm, it had engulfed everything and everyone in its path.

  The squad moved with deft precision through the shadows of the vacant ward. Occasional bursts of gunfire and barking dogs interrupted the foreboding silence that surrounded them.

  The sheer number of stray dogs was heartbreaking. They were not wild dogs, but collared, starving, house pets that sensed the men’s advances through their territory. Some would growl for a moment before shrinking away. Others would simply rush blindly up to the men, seeking the affection they no longer received from the owners that had turned them loose before retreating northward.

  ***

  The University of Texas at Brownsville was a stark contrast to the bleak neighborhoods to the north. Despite the occasional indication of having been looted, and the obvious months-long lack of maintenance, the campus was still beautiful. Amphitheaters, fountains and gardens, they all remained. The Resaca, or oxbow lake, reflected the occasional star that shined through the cloudy, night sky. The squad took full advantage of the broad shadows cast by the tall campus buildings as they continued south.

  As they crossed the narrow isthmus on Ringgold Road that connected the north and south sections of the campus, they heard the shattering of glass somewhere ahead. The squad disappeared into the tall grass and shrubs along the shoulders of the road. They readied their rifles and scanned ahead, looking for the source of the sound. From behind a distant building, they saw a bottle fly through the air and shatter on the pavement in front of them.

  An engine rumbled to life. Headlights flashed across the pavement. A large, flatbed truck slowly appeared from around the building and turn north towards the squad. The two amigos up front were scanning the road ahead, but the half-dozen soldados on the back were drinking and howling as they flung empty bottles at passing signs and windows. Their rifles bounced and clattered on the bed of the truck beside them. Unbeknownst to the men, a dozen rifles were trained at them from the darkness beyond.

  Barrett followed the driver with his M4 carbine, watching him as he drove the aging diesel unwittingly past a momentarily merciful angel of death. He wondered what the men’s purpose was, meandering through the city. Perhaps they were freelance thugs, scavenging the remains of the city. He considered the thought and decided it was highly unlikely. They were most likely part of the narco alliance.

  The flatbed sentries passed by without incident. After several minutes, the squad resumed their trek down Ringgold Road. They crossed University Boulevard, passed the student REK center and disappeared back down along the wooded shoreline of the oxbow lake, continually moving south.

  Up ahead, they saw a ruined, smoldering building. As they approached, Barrett was filled with rage. He had heard that the National Guard Facility had fallen, but seeing the horrific results first hand was more than he could stand.

  The white building had gaping holes in its sides, and was blackened and charred with soot. Several badly burned Humvees were scattered about, and many more were missing. The red, white and blue flag that had flown over the facility had been replaced with a red, white and green standard. The squad noticed the grisly pikes that were prominently displayed around the flag pole in front of the building. They were adorned in the same macabre fashion as before.

  The squad paused upon seeing the horrific sight. Several men made the sign of the cross, while others simply bowed their heads to say a solemn prayer for the brave souls that were lost.

  In the distance, gunfire rang out somewhere in the city. Barrett cursed himself for letting the driver of the flatbed pass through his sights and continue to wreak havoc. The men turned and nodded to each other in an unspoken agreement. They would not be as merciful next time.

  The team crossed River Levee Road and entered Fort Brown Memorial Golf Course. The greens had seen two seasons without any maintenance. The tall grass helped conceal the squad as they dashed through the night to the tree line. They spotted a distant campfire on the far side of the course. Apparently someone had sought the relative safety of the abandoned greens. Still, the ope
n campfire was a perilous luxury they had afforded themselves. The squad maintained a watchful eye on dancing flames as they cut across the course.

  After several minutes, they were standing on the bank of the Rio Grande. It had been decided that they would divide into three fire teams upon reaching the river. The first team would remain on the American side of the river and provide observation, rear guard and long-range fire support. The other teams would cross the Rio Grande. The second team would remain in a defensive position on the Mexican side of the river, and the final team would perform the reconnaissance of the park.

  The first team found a high position that afforded them concealment and line of sight, while the other two teams readied themselves for the crossing. Team Two reached the opposite bank first and got into a forward facing position.

  As the final team reached foreign soil, they stripped out of their wet battle dress uniforms and retrieved the dry civilian garbs from their packs. The clothing was nondescript and typical for the area: cotton pants and buttoned shirts with ball caps. Two of the team members wore tattered sneakers. The other two wore boots and serape capes loosely draped over their shirts. The two SEALs concealed suppressed MP5s beneath their serapes, while the guardsmen abandoned their M4 carbines for Berretta pistols. The two teams exchanged their goodbyes and slaps on the back, before the final team disappeared over the hill and into Matamoros.

  ***

  Barrett, Holt and the two other members of the team climbed the steep wooded bank and crossed the empty street that followed the Rio Grande’s meanderings. They strolled along the sidewalk nonchalantly, like locals familiar with the area. They split up in pairs as they passed a pedestrian and remained a short distance apart as they continued onward. After a block or so, they turned right onto Alhelíes.

  From their perspective, Matamoros was not unlike many other cities. The buildings in the area were well maintained, and the sidewalks and streets were reasonably free of trash. The streets were in rather poor condition, though. They were cracked heavily and missing chunks of pavement in some areas. Other sections were no more than a series of patches, the original pavement long since replaced.

  There was no access to any property beyond the sidewalks. Fences, gates and buildings were constructed to the edge of the street’s right of way. All windows were covered with bars to further protect the viviendas from any matόns that may be looking for an easy target. Most of the streetlights were not working for one reason or another. Alhelíes Street was dark, save for the occasional, dim, porch light. Barrett preferred the darkness. He knew that a nosy local would immediately make them for gringos.

  The one-way street was lined with old, rusted Fords and Pontiacs. An occasional Mercedes could be seen behind eight foot wrought-iron fencing with barb wire strung across the top.

  As they reached the end of the block, the young guardsman beside Barrett whispered, “There’re four men about a ways behind us. I think we’re being followed.”

  “Yeah, they’re definitely following us. They have been since we first stepped foot in the city.”

  “Well, what now?”

  “Just keep walking, we’ll round the corner and see what our options are.

  ***

  The four gamberros had watched the fire team appear out of the thicket that covered the banks of the Rio Grande from several blocks away. They were intrigued by the men and decided to shadow them for a short while. The strangers seemed to blend into the area well enough, perhaps too well. To anyone else, the men from the river would have likely been a passing blur in the night. But to the gamberros, who lived on the streets, something was subtly foreign about the four.

  The small-time thugs survived by blade and barrel. They were thieves, murderers and always for hire. They terrorized the honest people that lived on the blocks that they laid claim to. To the gamberros, it was simply the nature of things. If they did not do it someone else would, so it may as well be them.

  As the gamberros warily shadowed the men from a safe distance, the leader of the group retrieved the nickel-plated pistola from the small of his back. His three compadres gripped their long-bladed puῆales in anticipation of the encounter. They saw the men from the river glance sidelong and notice their presence. The four, strange men quickened their pace as they prepared to turn onto Primera.

  After the men from the river rounded the corner, the gamberros quickened their pace as well. Their pulses remained subdued, however. To them, it was just another mugging. The leader was the first around the corner with the three others in quick step behind him. They noticed two of the men from the river, the two in sneakers, standing a half a block away. The men in the serapes had mysteriously disappeared. No worries though, they thought, two would be easier to subdue than four anyway.

  They never considered casting a glance into the dark alcove as they rushed the two men from the river. As they hurried past the shallow nook at the entrance of the shuttered store, several muffled shots cracked in quick succession. The three compadres slumped and fell without uttering a word. The wounded leader groaned as he turned and aimed his pistol into the darkness. Before he could finish the motion, he was ventilated by another muffled volley.

  He was caught by one of the men in sneakers before his body ever hit the ground. The other three men from the river were already dragging the remaining bodies into the dark nook. They stacked the gamberros neatly in the shadowy corner and piled several bags of trash that had rested at the storefront around them. The team glanced around for onlookers, but found none. The SEALs straightened their serapes and the team continued down Primera.

  ***

  After another fifteen minutes of travel through Matamoros, Barrett and the other men arrived at the crumbling apartment building. It was three-stories tall – the tallest building in the area. From the roof, one would have a clear view of Olympic Park, at least, they hoped. Barrett peered around the corner from across the street. He scanned the front of the old brick building and its surroundings. Nothing looked to be out of order. They waited several more minutes to ensure that they were alone on the street before venturing further.

  Barrett checked his watch; they were five minutes late. Holt retrieved a pack of cigarettes from under his serape and offered them to his team members. He struck a match with his thumbnail and lit each of the men’s smokes. As the fourth cigarette was lit, a small lamp faintly flickered on in one of third story windows. Immediately, it turned off again. Barrett flicked the newly-lit cigarette onto the sidewalk and silently counted to thirty before stepping out from around the corner.

  As his left foot reached the stoop of the building, the steel security door opened before them. They rushed inside without saying a word. Barrett and the others chased after the nervous man. He took them up several flights of stairs and down a long hall to a small, dirty flat. As they entered the small apartment, the man silently motioned them to a worn, wooden table in the kitchen. He leaned his head out of the doorway and peered up and down the hall, before easing the door shut.

  The studio apartment had one grimy window that looked eastward. The walls were bare, except for several faded pictures of the man in times long past. Beside him was a beautiful, dark-haired amiguita. In all of the pictures they smiled lovingly and embraced one another with passion. There were other pictures of the man and the woman with a young girl.

  Barrett walked over to the pictures and followed the progression of the young girl into a beautiful woman. She looked just like her mother. Her beauty was stunning. He could not remember a face that was more angelic than hers. Her hair was long, jet-black and fell just past her shoulders. Her skin was light olive and radiant. She was short, but not too short; thin, but not frail. Barrett seemed to get lost for a moment in the picture. For the first time in days, he smiled.

  A battered couch and loveseat adorned the living area. A shower curtain was strung across the room on the far end of the flat to afford some meager bathroom privacy. The kitchen was small and bare. An ancient st
ove and a tiny, rusted refrigerator were the only appliances.

  The man hurried into the kitchen and opened the oven. He retrieved a stack of plain maize tortillas that he had kept warming until their arrival. He placed them on the table along with a bowl of rice, onions and peppers. The men sat silently as he returned to the kitchen to retrieve a fresh pot of coffee and five cups. Finally, he took a seat in an empty chair beside them. As he poured the coffee, he looked up at Barrett and spoke in broken English, “It is good to see you, my friend.”

  Barrett sighed in relief, as if a blanket of apprehension had been lifted from him, “Likewise. How’ve you been, Alex?”

  “Is okay. Is not too good here now. It is - how do you say? Mucho peligroso.”

  Barrett translated for the others, “He says it’s very dangerous here nowadays.”

  The men nodded in agreement, thinking back to the encounter with the gamberros.

  “Yes, yes; very dangerous.” Alex paused, before continuing, “Please eat, you must be hungry.”

  The men eagerly spooned the rice onto the tortillas as they discussed the condition of Matamoros and beyond. Without the remittances from immigrant workers in the United States, many families once considered middle class were left hopelessly impoverished. At one time, Mexican families received nearly thirty billion dollars from their sons and daughters that worked north of the border. In an area where the average monthly income was barely over a hundred dollars, an envelope with several hundred mailed south afforded a family a means to live in moderate comfort. Now, every day was a struggle to stay alive.

  The men finished the last of the warm tortillas and contently sipped the bitter coffee. Barrett retrieved a pouch of silver mercury dimes from his pocket and tossed it onto the table.