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

by Archer Garrett

  The sudden sound of jet engines startled Barrett. He dashed back into the lantern room and radioed for everyone to find cover on the exposed roofs as best they could. He grabbed the remote that controlled all six of the Gladiators and began to move them around the island.

  Three, low-flying F-5s streaked over Port Isabel and dropped the entirety of their payloads on South Padre. Barrett stared at the explosions and held his breath.

  With the joystick he aimed the tiny tanks skyward and saw five sets of tracer rounds pierce the night sky. Amazingly he had only lost one Gladiator. He watched as the jets streaked back overhead, assumingly returning to base. As he spun to watch them, he saw the endless line ERC 90s quietly approaching. He radioed again, warning of their approach.

  They held their fire as the convoy rolled down the boulevard and stopped at the approach of the causeway. The vehicles aimed their cannons eastward and began to shell the island mercilessly. Barrett fumbled with the bulky remote and returned fire. The Gladiators’ rounds were useless at point-blank range, much less from across the lagoon. Their purpose was to merely ensure their enemy was sufficiently confident in his victory.

  One by one, the Gladiators were destroyed, their tracer fire to be seen no more. Barrett radioed the men to ready their Dragons and wait for his order. The scenario could not have been more perfect, he thought. While the front vehicles were bombarding the island, the rear vehicles crowded forward to see the action, their lack of discipline now on display. Several of the crews had even left their vehicles unattended while they scampered forward to see the destruction of the gringos that had harassed them for months.

  As the shelling stopped, a hatch opened on one of the front ERC 90s. A man emerged and stared through his binoculars at the island for several minutes. Satisfied with the destruction, he disappeared back into the vehicle.

  This was the moment.

  Barrett stroked the button on the radio for a second or two, before pressing it and whispering, “Our turn.”

  In the first moments of the volley, ten Dragon missiles were launched from the rooftops nearby. Before those missiles had even met their targets, another fifteen were being launched. By the time the soldiers in the street could process the unexpected sights and sounds, thirty-five Dragons had been launched from less than two-hundred yards away. The missiles screamed towards the unorganized cluster of ERC 90s.

  The shock and terror below was apparent by the inaction of the vehicles that were not hit. The ones that did react tried to retreat, but the wreckage around them foiled their attempts. Within ten seconds, the two-man teams had attached the tubular firing system to a second missile, a drill they had performed hundreds of times in the past several days. Their second volley annihilated the remaining vehicles.

  Within another twenty seconds, the slower, APCs had reached the point where the grassy median split Highway 100 into the expansive Queen Isabella Boulevard. They were now within line of sight of the guardsmen, a mere four-hundred yards away. The APCs had not even concerned themselves with the sounds of the violent, rooftop ambush. They had assumed it was merely part of the island bombardment. Besides, they had received no calls of distress. A single, concerted barrage of Dragons from the rooftops ended the armored procession with an enormous ball of flame.

  Heavy, white smoke hung thick in the air of Port Isabel, completely shrouding the base of the lighthouse. Barrett stood atop the tower in awe of the complete and total victory. He keyed the radio again and barked, “Well done, Dragon Slayers. Gryphon, proceed with search and destroy.”

  Strykers, Humvees and AAVs streamed out from underneath the beach houses on Long Island to the south. They crossed the swing bridge into town and dispersed amongst the side streets near the boulevard with their large spotlights illuminating the night. The men on the rooftops had switched back to their rifles after readying the Dragons for a fourth volley, just in case. They searched the alleys and streets below them for any remaining soldados.

  Barrett heard several shots ring out from the neighboring streets. Not long thereafter, reports of ‘all clear’ began echoing from his radio.

  “Alright,” he replied, “let’s move out. They’re waiting for us in Port Mansfield. It’s a good two-hour drive and I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  He smiled as he made his way down from his perch. Tomorrow they could determine their strategy for the days to come, but for now they would celebrate.

  Cha pter 21

  Reese

  Houston, Texas

  His tension began to subside as the Learjet lifted off the runway. Reese had not slept any the night before in the sprawling cemetery. He had forced himself to stay awake as he sat in the back of the cabin on the wide bench seat. With the jet in the air, he reclined the bench until it was flat. He stretched out and finally closed his eyes. With no one but the pilot and himself onboard, Reese felt safe enough to rest during the three-hour flight.

  He drifted in and out of sleep during the turbulent flight, subconsciously reaching for his MP5 with every jerk and bounce of the jet. He dreamed of wars in his past and in his future. He recalled the harsh, winter nights spent in the rugged, Afghan terrain over ten years ago.

  Along with his Special Forces brothers, he was one of the first Americans to step foot on Afghan soil in 2001. They had come to be known as the horse soldiers. The men he fought alongside were more than elite warriors, they were soldier-emissaries sent into a region that had repelled the Brits in the 19th century and the Soviets in the 20th. The American Empire would be just another ruined superpower unless they could find another way.

  In the early days of the war, they fought alongside the northern tribesmen like kinsmen. They were an odd combination of modern super-soldiers and ancient guerillas. They routed forces that outnumbered them by as much as forty to one.

  The irony of their mission was not lost on him. The first battles in the 21st century’s War on Terror would be fought on the backs of Afghan ponies. He recalled the frigid nights that they repelled from Chinooks that were hovering in altitudes higher than should have even been mechanically and mathematically possible, into the harsh lands below. He thought of the cheering villagers in the mountaintop settlements where they stopped for rest and to seek support for the struggle against an oppressive and intolerant regime.

  He smiled as he recollected the men driving forward through some of the most rugged and desolate, almost otherworldly, landscapes on mere horses, with the world’s most sophisticated night-vision, weaponry and communications equipment.

  He remembered one battle in particular where they brazenly charged a group of Taliban soldiers, firing over the heads of their horses. Suddenly, he was flung forward as his pony was shot out from underneath him. Reese landed hard on the unforgiving ground while the other soldiers galloped past. Without warning, he felt a hard tug and was slung upwards through the air and onto the back of a massive Afghani’s battle horse. The man turned and flashed a toothless smile before continuing his fearless assault.

  He remembered lying on his back and staring at the stars, feeling a strong sense of connection with the kindred spirits of times long past. He had often dreamt on those nights of riding alongside Mosby’s Men and the Rough Riders. His brothers-in-arms often remarked that they felt as if they had been sent into the past to change the present.

  The war had dragged on through the years because of spineless politicians seven-thousand miles away, but he and his men never forgot. They fought and died changing a nation. Regardless of where America stood now in the eyes of the Afghani people, they had left as heroes in the eyes of the villagers in the north. They had prayed for a champion and had been sent an entire cavalry of them from half a world away.

  ***

  The sudden descent awoke Reese from his sleep. He groggily peered out the window beside him and watched as the golf course below grew in size, until it seemed as if they would land on the eighth hole. The jet buzzed the treetops and managed a fairly gentle landing on the cracked
, asphalt runway. The unexpected scenery disoriented Reese. He grabbed his pack, cautiously walked up the narrow aisle to the cockpit and knocked on the door.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Where are we?”

  “West Houston Airport, sir.”

  “Why didn’t we fly in to Bush?”

  “Bush redirected us here. Don’t worry, it’s about the same distance. If I understand correctly, they’ve a driver waiting for you on the tarmac, so you’ll be off the plane and on your way.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Reese’s pulse quickened as the adrenaline began to course through his body. From the moment he heard that they were landing in West Houston, he knew his true intentions had been discovered. Either William had learned the truth, or he had been executed and the man Reese had spoken to on the phone in the hotel was running the show. Reese hoped William was still in the picture. He could handle a couple of punk revolutionaries much more easily than a rogue element within the CIA.

  West Houston Airport was situated on the edge of the Addicks and Barker reservoirs. Together, they encompassed nearly 26,000 acres of dense forests and deep swamps, and prevented the downstream flooding of Houston. The dark swamps contained therein were more than adequate to hide a body or two, if needed.

  As the jet came to a stop on the wet tarmac, Reese dug into his pack and retrieved a light rain jacket. He stuffed his Smith and Wesson Airweight into the jacket pocket and slid the larger Glock into his shoulder holster. He would be expected to be armed. He hoped that with his hand firmly gripping the revolver in his pocket, ready to fire through the fabric if need be, would grant him a moment of surprise. The visible, but undisturbed, Glock hanging from the shoulder holster would hopefully lull plant a glimmer of complacency within them.

  He opened the door of the jet, walked down the steps and onto the runway. He saw the two men standing beside the black GMC Suburban in the misting rain and immediately knew he was not dealing with revolutionaries. They were tall, muscular and had the high-speed, low-drag look down to the Oakley sunglasses. Great, Reese thought, they’ve got the look, but let’s see if they’ve got the follow through. He let out a deep breath, puffed his chest out and conjured up the most condescending attitude he could muster.

  His pack was slung over his left shoulder, and his right hand was firmly gripping the revolver in his pocket. As he approached the men, he eyed them cautiously. One sudden move and he would empty the revolver in their direction. He hoped he did not have to fire on them immediately. He preferred to make his move away from the airport and any witnesses. Reese needed all the time he could get before his friends in Washington were aware he had escaped, if he did manage to escape.

  The driver was leaning against his door. The second man was near the back, passenger side of the SUV, closest to Reese. Before he could speak, Reese chucked his pack hard at the man. As he caught in, Reese barked, “Throw it in the back and let’s get moving; I don’t have any time to waste.”

  The second man craned his head over his shoulder to look at the driver. When he turned back around, Reese‘s face was inches from his own. Reese growled at the man even more forcefully the second time.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, boy? Are you deaf or just too stupid to understand the words coming out of my mouth? Move it, now!”

  The man spun and opened the rear passenger door and tossed the pack in the back of the Suburban. Reese was already making his way to the rear, driver-side door. He wanted to make sure he was behind the driver if at all possible. The driver had already transitioned inside the vehicle and had cranked the engine.

  “Sir,” the second man said, “why don’t you have a seat over here?”

  Probably just field agents; they have no idea what they’re getting into. My jet ride must’ve caught D.C. by surprise, and these two were the best he could come up with on short notice. I wonder what story they’ve been fed about me. God, have mercy on me, but I don’t have a choice. Give me a way out; please give me an option.

  “Just shut up and get in, I don’t have time for you.”

  The man stood in defiance at first, but the driver glared back, finally giving an angry nod. The man finally relented and climbed into the SUV. Reese continued to bark orders as they drove away. He wanted the ride to be as loud and confusing as possible. He wanted them angry so their reactions would be clumsy and delayed. The driver punched the gas and the Suburban sped away. Somewhere beneath his angry scowl, Reese was smiling.

  Dusk was quickly fading to darkness as they pulled out of the airport and onto Groeschke Road. Reese had settled into a momentary lull from his tirade as they approached the side road. He had already anticipated the turn into Cullen Park. The park led to the more secluded areas of the reservoir. The driver continued to stare at Reese through the rear-view mirror, watching his every move. He was scarcely paying attention the road ahead of him. Having Reese sitting directly behind him was obviously not part of the plan.

  Up ahead at the edge of the woods, Reese saw a large doe poke her head out of the foliage and peer about. He watched as she nervously eased down the slope and made her way towards the road. The headlights blinded her and caused her to freeze on the shoulder. Reese seized the moment. He glared at the driver and said, “You got a problem up front? Why don’t you turn around here so I can slap that cocky look off your face?”

  The second man tried to intervene, “Sir, you need to remain calm; we’re here to help-“

  The driver interrupted in a shout, “I’ve had enough of you!” He spun around to face Reese and began to speak just as the doe decided to step into their lane. Reese grinned as he buckled his seat belt at the last moment.

  The Suburban slammed into her at full speed. The doe slid up the wide hood and smashed into the windshield. The loud crash and sudden jolt caught both of the agents by surprise. The driver instinctively hit the brakes and jerked the steering wheel, only making matters worse.

  As they careened out of control on the slick pavement, Reese produced the revolver. He struck the man beside him as hard as he could in his temple. The man grunted and slumped in his seat. Reese glanced up just in time to see the massive live oak less than twenty feet from the driver’s door as they slid sideways toward it. He braced himself as they collided with the unmoving, unmerciful giant.

  ***

  He awoke groggy, not knowing how long he had been unconscious. He unbuckled himself and carefully rolled out of the SUV. His ribs underneath the shoulder holster were painfully sore to the touch, but they did not seem to be broken. Besides his throbbing ribs, everything else seemed to be unharmed. He searched for his revolver but it was nowhere to be found. He retrieved his pistol from the holster and circled the SUV, checking the status of the two men still inside.

  The men had pulses, but were unconscious. The driver looked to be in worse condition than the second man. Reese searched their pockets and retrieved their wallets, weapons and phones. He dragged the men from the Suburban and laid them on the shoulder of the road. He once again circled the vehicle and surveyed the damage. The hood was wrinkled and bloody, and the driver’s door was hopelessly smashed shut against the tree, but it looked operable.

  He turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtered for a moment before roaring to life. He selected 4wd low and slowly backed up onto the highway. The sheet metal on the door scraped and scratched along the tree trunk as he eased out of the ditch. He realized the steering wheel was turned about forty five degrees clockwise as he straightened the tires on the pavement.

  He took one last look at the men before driving away. He checked his watch and sighed as he realized it was already getting late. Reese conceded that this was just the beginning of another, long night as he headed for Austin, and there were probably many more like it to come.

  Chapte r 22

  Senator Ames

  St. Ansgar, Iowa

  The people of St. Ansgar crowded around the station as they cheered and bid farewell to the senator. He
turned back and gave a final wave before stepping onto the train. He had just concluded another powerful speech, but was unable to stay and mingle with his supporters. Time was growing short and they still had a lot of stops ahead of them. It was not easy campaigning 19th century style.

  The shipping of goods by river and rail had begun to exhibit a marked resurgence in recent months. It was much cheaper and safer to transport cargo by train or barge than by truck. The senator chose rail as his means of transportation, because like his values and ideals, it was experiencing a rebirth of its own.

  They felt the jolt as the three diesel locomotives, two on the front and one in the rear, began to slowly push-pull the train from the station. The payload consisted both of mixed freight and the senator’s passenger cars. Ames had a dining car, the “war room” and three sleepers. His advisers had argued vehemently against the use of the vulnerable train for transportation, but the senator insisted. If it was his fate to die on the campaign trail, he accepted it.

  The senator stopped by the dining car to get some coffee before making his way to the war room. In the center of the open carriage was a large oak table. The surface was covered with laptops, half-empty coffee mugs and documents scribbled with notes. Chairs and benches lined the walls, and the walls themselves were plastered with charts, diagrams and maps.

  His running mate, Governor Hawkins, and his staff were already busy at work when he arrived. He approached the table and sunk into his plush leather chair. He sat in silence for a while and stared out the window at the endless, Iowan fields occasionally interrupted by a solitary oak or a barbed-wire fence.

  The campaign trail had been difficult for him. The faces of the people he met were full of heartache and pain. They had lost so much so abruptly; they were a broken people. He could see in their eyes that they looked to him for the hope of a brighter future. He would never admit it, but the burden of their expectations was utterly crushing his soul. He knew he could not right a century of wrongs in four, eight, or probably even twenty years and had told them so, but still he could see the glimmers of hope in their eyes. They wanted a savior, but try as he might he could never fill those shoes.