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

by Archer Garrett

  “William,” she said, “I have to say, I’m impressed. All of this - yours?”

  He propped his feet up and leaned back into the plush cushions of the couch before replying, “This is the opening act; I’m just getting started.”

  Chapt er 19

  Reese

  Washington, D.C.

  The man with the blue eyes topped off his coffee and started brewing another pot. It would surely be a very long night. He had muted the television long ago. He couldn’t listen to the ridiculous speculation and commentary from the marionettes anymore. He didn’t need their opinions on who was behind the terror attacks; he knew exactly who had done this.

  He had.

  He had acted as an intermediary for William and the counterparty. He had carefully chosen each target: the planes, Federal buildings, bridges and banks. He had coordinated the strike teams and even given the order to proceed. Then he had contacted his handler, and the agency had done nothing.

  The agency had done nothing.

  The devices were not even supposed to have been real. They were supposed to be inert, inactive, neutralized.

  This was not supposed to happen.

  His mind was racing. His thoughts were confused and half developed. It was as if his mind had just burst forth from the dam that had restrained it his entire life. He wanted to rage around the room, but he was afraid to utter even a sound. He wanted to go to Tonic and beat William with his bare hands, but he knew it was not all William’s fault.

  William was vile; everything he touched was poisoned by his warped ideologies, but he knew that if one was stung by a scorpion, one did not blame it. William was doing exactly what was to be expected. This was someone else’s fault; someone that was just as, or maybe more, nefarious than even Galleani.

  This was the fault of someone he had trusted.

  He set his cup of coffee on the floor by the bed and closed his eyes. He ran his clammy hands through his hair. He tried to clear his mind so that he could focus on what he should do. Even with his eyes closed, the images from the television still tortured him. He saw them all: the cars that had plummeted from the bridges into the waters below, the wreckages of the planes that had been detonated, and the ashen-faced men and women who searched for their loved ones in the rubble of the buildings. Every image haunted him.

  He stood up and looked around the room. Clothing was strewn about, and every piece of furniture in the room was stacked against the door. When he had checked in, he had argued to no avail for a room with a balcony. At the moment, he was thankful to only have one point of entry. His MP5 and Glock pistol were within arm’s reach on the bed beside him. He paced in circles, recollecting the events once again.

  There were undoubtedly numerous teams from his agency involved in Operation Fireproof, he reasoned. He was the face of the operation, negotiating with William and the counterparty. There should have been a second team that acted as a foreign group and supplied the supposedly inert explosives to the counterparty. There were numerous teams that should have acted simultaneously across the country to apprehend the terrorists during the placing of the devices.

  A strike against the counterparty should have occurred in at the same time as the other counterstrikes. The group did not act as overtly as William, but their capture was just as important. This was supposed to be a celebration, but instead it was wrought with uncertainty and paranoia.

  As far as he knew, none of the other teams had even mobilized against the threats. The answer had to be one of three possibilities: his handler had not transmitted his intel to the agency, someone within the agency had received the transmission from his handler and had failed to contact the other teams, or all of the other field teams had refused to act.

  He knew the field agents and his handler better than he knew anyone else. By the nature of his profession, he trusted them with his life. Since William had managed to obtain live explosives, he reasoned that the second possibility was most likely. Somewhere in the Special Activities Division of the CIA, or SAD as it was referred to, there was a traitor, or perhaps traitors, of the highest order.

  He sat on the bed and dialed his handler. The phone rang four or five times with no answer. As he was about to hang up, he heard a man’s voice on the line.

  “Yes?”

  His heart sank and his stomach turned. There was no doubt in his mind that Sofia was dead. He searched for words, but found none. He sat in silence.

  “Reese, is that you? Speak up, old boy.”

  “I don’t know who you are, but I promise you I’ll find you; and when I do-“

  The man laughed with derision and interjected, “You’ll do what? How do you find a ghost, Reese? How do you kill a specter? I’ve lain down before you in the mud and watched you with labored breaths. I’ve whispered to your soul and dreamt of squeezing my trigger from a thousand yards away. How do you win when you don’t know the players, or even the very game that’s being played?”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “You’ve no one left you can trust, and nowhere left to go, and I’m coming for you.”

  Click.

  Reese found himself staring once again at the television as the call abruptly ended. The man was right; he had nowhere to go and no one to trust. He was alone in a city full of liars and thieves. He had to assume that every one of his contracts was either a traitor or dead.

  Or, maybe he did have someone left. He grabbed a separate, pre-paid phone that was lying on the floor in the far corner of the room. He rubbed his thumb across the keypad and closed his eyes as carefully considered the action. Finally, he dialed the number. Reese gathered his sparse belongings while the phone rang.

  “Who is it?” the voice demanded.

  Reese could hear the sense of victory in William’s voice, and it disgusted him. “It’s me. Can we talk?”

  “You know, I’m kind of busy at the moment. You should come over here if you’re still in town.”

  “I don’t have time for that, Will. I need to talk to you, in private, now. Can we meet at Johnny’s spot?”

  “Johnny’s spot?”

  “I’m leaving now; I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Alright, alright,” William groaned, “give me thirty minutes.”

  Reese hung up the phone and walked to the bathroom. He washed his hands and face, and then stared blankly at the mirror. His blue eyes blazed back at him from the other side. Finally, he whispered, “He’s your only hope. You can kill William Galleani later, but tonight, he’s all you’ve got.”

  ***

  Reese nervously scanned the shadows from the highest point he could find, Lee’s mansion. It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to travel the five short miles to Arlington cemetery. He had doubled back a dozen times to ensure no one was following him. Surely they would have considered that in his desperation he might contact William. He had told no one of the locations where their meetings occurred, not even his handler, but that brought him little comfort.

  The cemetery was once again free of any interlopers. Countless crypts and monuments dotted the landscape. It had seemed so safe when he thought he was in control of the situation. Now, all he could see were the innumerable vantage points where someone could be waiting for him to step out of the shadows and into their crosshairs.

  He continued to search the darkness for any adversaries until, finally, he saw William’s bike. He first spotted solitary headlight on the front of the Ducati Monster as it was crossing the Potomac. He hoped William would dim the light, or turn it off completely, but he never did. Reese reasoned that, between the successful attacks and a night of celebratory drinking, William was likely feeling unstoppable.

  William guided the bike to the center of the plaza, just below Kennedy’s grave. He shut it off and casually strolled up the steps to the eternal flame. Reese watched as William reached into his jacket and retrieved something. He fumbled with the item for a moment before bringing it up to his mouth – his flask, of course; William was st
ill celebrating.

  William crouched down low and warmed his hands over the small fire, waiting for Reese to appear. Reese alternated between watching William, the cemetery and the bridge for several more minutes before finally crawling out from under the bushes and carefully making his way down the hill to the flame.

  When William saw him, he raised both arms in victory. Reese was too far away yet to see, but he could imagine the sickening smile that William had on his face. As Reese reached the foot of the hill, William enthusiastically stepped forward to greet him.

  “Excellent work, excellent work. You exceeded all expectations. I thought at least two or three of our devices would be discovered, but I was wrong. Your planning was flawless!”

  Reese’s breathing and pulse quickened at the sound of William’s voice. He struggled to contain his rage. He exhaled long and slow, and then replied with a smile, “They never saw us coming, eh comrade?”

  “Never indeed! Here have a drink.” William extended his flask to Reese; he accepted the gesture and took a deep gulp of the vodka. The strong libation helped to calm his nerves. Reese took a second gulp before handing it back.

  “Now, comrade,” William continued, “what brings us here tonight?”

  “I’ve decided I want to go to Texas, to help.”

  “Relax, your job’s finished; you did well. I have capable people on the ground. They’re already helping our new friend’s team get everything into position. Why would you want to fly across the country now, after just the other day you were up in arms over a phone call?”

  “Well,” Reese replied, “tonight was so – perfect. I believe it could be the tipping point. We’re on the cusp of something amazing William, can’t you feel it? You need someone in Houston that you know can deliver. I’ve thought about it and I want all in. Besides, do we really need a couple of your underlings from Texas handling such a sensitive operation?”

  “I appreciate that, but things are moving so fast, I don’t know if you can even get there in time. We’re talking a matter of days.”

  “How soon can I be on a plane? I want this, Will.”

  “Alright, I can make some calls tomorrow morning. I can probably have you on a private plane by tomorrow night. I’ll let everyone know you‘re coming, but if something happens - we move without you. I can’t let anything screw this up. Is that fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Good.” William smiled, “Now go get some rest, you’ll need it; the next few days’ll be a wild ride.”

  “I’m sure they will. Thank you.”

  William placed his hand on Reese’s shoulder for a moment as he smiled. Reese could feel his stomach turning in revulsion at the gesture. William turned and walked back down to his bike in the plaza. Reese watched as he rode away and slowly disappeared over the Potomac.

  He turned in a slow circle and stared at the loneliness that surrounded him. He felt a strong sense of foreboding, as if a thick cloud of evil had enveloped him. He knew he could not return to his room for the night. He had no choice but to stay here. At least here, he would be surrounded by men whose loyalty was without question. He set off to the west, to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

  Ch apter 20

  Barrett

  South Padre Island

  The armored vehicles had left Olympic Park in Matamoros less than thirty minutes ago. Soon, they would be in Port Isabel and then on to South Padre Island. There were nearly sixty of the ERC 90s. They were three-wide on the highway, and their convoy stretched for nearly a tenth of a mile. Each vehicle was armed with a 90 mm cannon and 7.62 mm machine guns.

  As they left the urban confines of Brownsville, Texas, the terrain became open and sandy. They were surrounded by rivers, canals and lakes on both sides of Highway 48. The warm, night air felt good on the soldados’ faces as they rode on the tops and sides of the fast-moving, six-wheeled vehicles. Two-dozen tracked, armored personnel carriers, or APCs, followed several miles behind the swift-moving convoy. They would only be needed after the ERC 90s had finished shelling the island.

  The Capitán Primero was anxious to engage the gringos. He had lobbied hard to leave Matamoros sooner, but the Z-G lieutenants had denied his requests. The cartels wanted to wait until the full force of the army was mobilized in Matamoros before proceeding. Despite his reservations about their decision, he obliged them; they were his jefes now. They paid much better than the government ever did, anyway. Besides, even if he had wanted to, it was not as if he could resign from his post.

  As the convoy reached Queen Isabella Boulevard, three F-5 Tiger IIs screamed overhead in an echelon formation. Within a matter of moments they were over Padre Island. The lead jet unleashed both of his rocket pods simultaneously and battered the island with close to forty Hydra rockets. His two wingmen released their payloads of Mk 80 bombs. The island’s infrastructure was decimated.

  As the jets performed a cross turn and headed back to the west, the soldiers in the ERC 90s could see tracer rounds from multiple locations on the island. The bullets flashed skyward in response to the attack.

  The convoy proceeded east down the boulevard and stopped in the center of Port Isabel. Just ahead lay the long causeway that led to the guard’s redoubt. They aimed their cannons eastward and began to shell the island.

  South Padre once again flashed bright from the light of the explosions. Buildings were erased from the horizon. A dark cloud of smoke hung heavy in the distance. With the aid of binoculars, a few peculiar looking units on the island could be seen mobilizing in groups and returning fire. Soon the counterattack dissipated. The soldados cheered enthusiastically at their overwhelming victory.

  After he was satisfied with the utter destruction of the island, the Capitán Primero ordered the convoy to cease fire. The attack was violent and swift, and had apparently caught most of the guardsmen by surprise. They had expected a fierce battle after finding the dead soldados on the roof of the apartment in Matamoros. They were all but certain that the gringos had discovered their amassing army. As it appeared, though, their fears were unfounded.

  The island was silent and empty in the distance. The winds from the east began to blow the heavy, billowing smoke from the island over Laguna Madre, and into Port Isabel. The Capitán opened the top hatch of one of the front vehicles and peered through his binoculars for several uneventful minutes. Finally satisfied, he ducked back inside vehicle and gave the command to proceed over the causeway.

  ***

  “Golden eagle! Golden eagle!”

  Barrett and his fellow guardsmen rushed to their positions as their radios squawked to life. The code words from the SEAL scout team in Brownsville echoed in their heads. The army in Matamoros was on the move, and they were coming to the island.

  They had been lying in wait for days. Barrett had expected the assault much sooner, but Providence had withheld it. The delay had afforded them the much-needed time to plead for reinforcements from Austin. They had begged for air support from Camp Mabry, but were told none was available. After a call to the governor’s office and a second call to command control, a plan began to form. The more they discussed it, the more Barrett and Holt fell in love with it; and if they were lucky, it might even work.

  Command control had recently been informed of a discovery in a National Guard Armory; crate upon crate of aging, Dragon missiles had been found languishing in the back of a storage bunker. It had been decided that the entire stockpile of the M47 Dragons would be sent to Padre Island, along with six of the state’s latest riot control vehicles.

  At less than 6’ in length and 4’ tall, the Gladiator tactical vehicle was perfect for urban crowd control. The small, remotely-controlled vehicles could be outfitted with the SWARM weapon system. When utilizing less-than-lethal rounds, the Gladiator could effortlessly repel even the most determined rioter. They looked like miniature tanks as they rolled down the streets of Austin. Before long, the mere presence of the Gladiators tended to disperse a group of potential pr
otestors.

  But even when outfitted with a machine gun, the tiny land drones were still no match for the heavy armoring and large cannons of the ERC 90s. They would be eradicated on sight without question, but perhaps they could serve another, more sacrificial purpose. Perhaps they could lend the appearance of an occupied Padre Island.

  ***

  Barrett and his teammates waited on the flat rooftops of the buildings along Queen Isabella Boulevard. They hid atop Lone Star National and First National Bank. They concealed themselves on the roofs of coffee shops and art galleries, of boutiques and antique stores and strip malls – no more than four men to a roof. They would need rapid dominance – shock and awe – from all sides if they were to overcome the odds that were stacked against them.

  The boulevard was divided by a wide, grassy median dotted with the occasional palm tree and ornamental shrub. Each side of the boulevard had two lanes, with an additional parking lane along the sidewalks. There was ample room for the convoy to tighten their formation as they neared the causeway.

  If the enemy proceeded through Port Isabel in a long, staggered line of vehicles without pause, Barrett would wait until they were over Laguna Madre before attacking. This would not be optimal, but he believed they could use the causeway to trap the convoy. Their casualties would likely be high, because Port Isabel would get shelled as well. He prayed they would stop at the bridge approach before proceeding. If they were clustered tightly in the center of town and not expecting an assault from behind, he knew he could decimate his opponent.

  It had been nearly ten minutes since the warning from the SEAL team. They had reported over fifty of the ERC 90s traveling at approximately 50 mph. Barrett stood atop the old Point Isabel Lighthouse, the tallest structure for miles. He had a commanding view of the surrounding area as he leaned against the ancient railing atop the structure. He waited impatiently; the soldados would be upon them at any moment.