Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die

by Wandrey, Mark

  “Take us around to the dock on the east side,” she told the bosun. She grabbed a handhold as the boat spun around and raced toward the platform. Each of the four legs was 50 feet across, and they supported the massive platform like the legs of a chair. A dock floated freely around one leg, held in place by cables, allowing it to move up and down in the swells. She’d spotted at least one boat docked there on their first orbit. Each leg had ladders, secured at the bottom with chain link cages to prevent unwanted visitors. There was a pair of bolt cutters aboard the longboat—also standard equipment. It would be better to gain access without resorting to those, though. The dock would have a door, probably controlled from above. At least they could knock.

  The dock came into view, and she lifted the glasses for a better look. As they were no longer racing laterally, the image was much clearer this time. She saw a small 10-by-10-foot shed and a pair of metal lockers. There was a gas pump near the central area closest to the leg where a ramp rested on wheels, moving slightly up and down in the afternoon swell. She had just begun to wonder why someone would paint the door to the platform brown when she realized what had splashed across the door…and it wasn’t a shade you would use to color anything.

  “Bosun, slow your approach and arm your men!” His head came around at the sharp order, and he quickly relayed her orders. All around her, the men looked worried as they fitted magazines into their guns and racked slides to charge their shotguns. The .50 caliber gunner knelt to open the ammo boxes and deftly began readying his weapon.

  The boat slowed to five knots as she looked around and nodded before raising the glasses once more. Yeah, it was blood all right, or someone was taking a joke way too far.

  “Body in the water,” the driver called out and pointed to a blue-clad pair of shoulders bobbing in the surf.

  “All stop,” she ordered, and the boat drifted forward. “Get a gaff and see if that’s a live person.”

  One of the men put his rifle down and took the gaff from its holder on the gunwale. As the motors idled and the boat drifted within reach, he gently hooked the blue shirt and pulled, and the body rolled over. Most of the face and neck were gone, torn away, maybe eaten by sharks after he/she fell in the water. The lieutenant couldn’t tell the sex. One of the men gagged and held his face.

  “Steady, men,” the bosun said. “Let’s get the body aboard.”

  “Belay that,” Grange said with a shake of her head.

  “Ma’am?”

  “It’s not going anywhere. You there, slip a life ring over that arm and we’ll come back for it.” She turned to the bosun, “I don’t want the men getting all freaked out with a damn corpse on the deck if we get in the shit.”

  “Aye-aye, ma’am. You heard the Lieutenant, secure the body with a float and let’s move on.”

  The driver put the motors in gear, and the longboat crawled toward the dock. The delay had bought the gunner time to load his guns, and for that she was grateful—her 10 armed men no longer felt like a force to be reckoned with. She remembered her own sidearm and quickly removed it from the holster, charged it, and returned it.

  Another minute, and they were holding a few yards from the dock. It was now apparent to all of them that a battle had taken place. There were blood sprays in a half dozen places, and two more bodies sprawled across the deck of a 30-foot Boston Whaler tied up a short distance away. It was listing badly to port and Grange figured it would soon sink. There were bullet holes here and there from small arms. Not many, but a few had obviously found the Whaler.

  What got to her, though, were the two bodies on the Whaler. One was face down, with a leg sticking up over the side. The other was in the pilot’s seat, his face and jaw ripped completely away, leaving his tongue hanging down like a macabre red tie.

  “What the fuck?!” one of the men demanded, no longer able to keep his peace.

  “Dios mio,” another man said, reverting to Spanish. “El Diablo!”

  “That’s enough,” the bosun barked, and the boat fell silent.

  “Let’s go in,” Grange said, unable to keep the quaver from her voice.

  “Aye-aye, ma’am,” the bosun said, tapping the driver on the shoulder. The driver put the motors into gear again, and the boat slid forward.

  Despite her efforts, the men were spooked pretty badly, but they still did their jobs. When they were a meter away, two of them slung their shotguns, grabbed ropes, and leaped across to the dock. One quickly tied the rope to a cleat while the other unlimbered his weapon and kneeled. Once they secured the boat, the other six men swarmed over the side. Grange, trying to control her breathing, was last to debark, her sidearm held at her side in one hand.

  No sooner had they hit the deck, then they heard the elevator come alive in the platform leg. Nine weapon muzzles spun around to cover the doorway, quickly followed by the twin barrels of the big fifty.

  “Steady,” Grange said, then quickly glanced at the bosun on the longboat. “Be ready,” she said and glanced at the two lines securing it to the dock, making her thoughts apparent. “I want to be able to get the fuck out of here fast, if need be.” He nodded in understanding.

  The sounds of the elevator slowed and stopped. Gun safeties came off in a series of rapid clicks as the doors slid open with mechanical efficiency, and a young black woman stepped out.

  “I’m Doctor Lisha Breda,” she said, a relieved look on her face, “and we’re very glad you’ve come!”

  * * *

  The F-15 streaked across the Mexican sky at 30,000 feet. Andrew’s breath came twice as fast as normal, partly from excitement and partly in fear. He was breaking several international laws and violating at least a dozen operational regulations.

  The fact that his CO had ordered him to do it and had provided aerial refueling was beside the point. An officer had to obey the civilian chain of command, and they had forbidden a recon run over the Mexican capital. But technically, he was just ferrying a recon-equipped fighter to Fort Hood and getting some training along the way…right?

  He’d passed into Mexican air space an hour ago, but the channels were dead; no one challenged him. Though the Mexican Air Force was hardly the envy of the other industrialized nations, they usually did watch their own borders. The lack of radio communications was a sure sign his CO’s instincts, and those of his collaborators, were correct.

  According to the computer, he was passing within 50 miles of one of their military bases. Though it wasn’t on the itinerary, he activated the camera pod and programmed a run. Under the belly of the aircraft, powerful cameras aligned and began taking digital images. A minute later, he was out of range.

  After another hour, he angled to the north. He still had not heard a word from either military or civilian air traffic control. “What the hell is going on down there?” he wondered.

  His scrambled communication board came alive with a text message through tac-net. “Switchblade-Tight End. TOT?”

  Andrew consulted the computer and replied, “Tight End-Switchblade, 40 mikes.”

  “OK,” was the simple reply. He’d told the CO he would be over Mexico City in 40 minutes. Anyone monitoring the text channel would have no idea what was going on.

  The final minutes passed, and the computer told him he was approaching the target. He triggered the preprogrammed recon run, verified his position though the GPS transponders, and waited. Right on time, the cameras began to roll.

  This time he decided to watch. He knew there wouldn’t be much garnered from the small military base he had overflown earlier, but this time he was flying directly over one of the largest cities in the world. The images were wide angle, and unbelievable. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

  Vast areas of the suburbs were ablaze or shrouded in smoke. The first high-rise he saw looked like a blazing matchstick; at least half its height was completely engulfed in flames. As his fighter raced north, it got worse. Huge tracts of the city had burned to cinders. Blackened buildings and toppled towers were everywhere; c
rumpled and burning cars clogged Mexico City’s famous wide avenues. The images looked like those of Berlin after WWII.

  He passed downtown and continued north, and there he saw the first signs of what was transpiring. Lines of tanks and APCs were firing madly as they withdrew…from a human tide. “I can’t believe it.”

  Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe a million people moved like a massive human tidal wave, threatening to overwhelm the retreating force. He was only over the battle for a few seconds, but he was sure he saw artillery land in the crowd more than once before he swept on past.

  Andrew had seen military weapons used on civilians, on tape and in person. You didn’t serve for long in the Middle East without witnessing the depths to which mankind’s soul can sink. Some crowds, driven by religious fervor or righteous anger, would charge sporadic gunfire, but this wasn’t sporadic. He’d just witnessed a sea of humanity rushing heedlessly in the direction of massive weapons fire, and they kept on coming! They appeared to be winning in places, overwhelming the defenders and destroying men and equipment alike.

  “What the hell am I seeing?” he asked the roar of the cockpit. Now, miles north of the conflagration, he was over the more affluent suburbs of Mexico City and the wide highways leading north. And there, he saw more surprises. Thousands of people clogged the roads, leaving on foot, in cars, in trucks, or in wagons pulled by burros—whatever would move—all heading north. The army hadn’t turned on the populace—it was buying the people time to withdraw. But, to withdraw from what? He desperately wished for more than a simple TV screen to view the images.

  Then, he was north of the city. Every mile showed fewer people heading north, and he eventually passed the chain of human refugees and flew over an area where men with armor appeared to be gathering. Preparing another line of defense? Defense against what, damn it?

  “Switchblade-Tight End, what did you observe?”

  Andrew stared at the screen for almost a minute, trying to decide how to convey his impressions to his commander. He finally decided. “Tight End-Switchblade. I saw Hell, and it’s coming north.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday, April 17

  The proliferation of drones made them ubiquitous. The military owned untold thousands, law enforcement owned legions more. Many drug organizations and gangs managed to get hold of privately-manufactured drones as well. One of the most eager new users turned out to be news organizations. The market for unarmed, smaller drones had proven extremely competitive, and the news groups were lining up to buy them from the manufacturers.

  The news hounds weren’t picky, but they did have specific demands. The drones needed to be able to carry good recording and transmitting technology, to have a lengthy loitering time, and to be extremely stealthy.

  A single Trimark Model 11-B Nightwing drone flew along using its ground-profiling radar to plot a course less than 10 meters above the terrain that raced by at just over 100 km/h. Somewhat resembling a B-2 stealth bomber, the Nightwing had a short boom with stabilizers and a pair of miniature ducted fans extending from its rear. In its current mode of operation, it could stay aloft, unguided, for nearly 20 hours. When it passed over the Mexican border, an automated surveillance system noted the passage and sent an alert. The drone would be 100 kilometers away before anyone came to investigate.

  Sticking to rocky canyons and tree-covered hills, the drone made rapid progress toward the south and west. It passed just to the south of Monterrey. The city was teeming with activity. Tens of thousands were packing cars, trucks, scooters, and even bicycles, preparing to evacuate. The military was fortifying the western approach along Highway 40 that cut through the mountains. The drone passed unnoticed through the mountain pass until it encountered the first camps. Valleys full of survivors from Mexico City covered the area from end to end, a small sea of people numbering in the tens of thousands. Dawn was still an hour away as the drone spent vital time circling, its array of cameras recording and transmitting what it saw. Few in the valley looked up at the buzz of the drone; many were too tired or hungry to wonder what it meant. All they knew was it wasn’t screaming death from the south. After a time, the drone continued south.

  The drone saw more camps, steadily increasing in size as it moved southward and finally encountered the first military presence. The drone’s controllers were cautious, but it didn’t matter; the military presence was disorganized, almost as if the soldiers were refugees as well. They sat in camps centered around supplies or heavy weapons. Small vehicles moved between the camps, attempting to coordinate and organize the ragtag survivors, with little success.

  After a short time, the Nightwing turned south again. A low mountain took a toll on its battery, and the drone was drawing close to its limit. But, just over the pass, it hit pay dirt. There was another army, only this one was not well organized, or even in uniform.

  Legions of men, women, and children shuffling along clogged the road. The Nightwing orbited slowly, filming the vast tide of humanity plodding inexorably north toward Monterrey.

  The drone continued to linger, running dangerously past its point of no return. The scene they were witnessing mesmerized the operators. A short distance in front of the advancing hordes were two broken down station wagons crowded with at least a dozen people. For hours, they’d tried desperately to get their cars running again and were about to give up when the first of the shambling mob crested a hill and spotted them.

  The drone’s high definition cameras caught, in perfect detail, a man in a tattered business suit. He walked, his face flaccid and expressionless, until he saw the pair of cars and the huddled refugees around them. His face instantly split into a horrendous mixture of rage and hunger. He shook his head violently from side to side before baring his teeth. There were no microphones to pick up the primal scream or hear it echoed by those behind him as dozens broke into a crazed, headlong rush down the hill.

  The refugees looked up in terror, and several instantly turned to run, but others, struck by indecision, either jumped into the cars and locked the doors or continued to struggle with the broken engines in vain. As the first of the runners hit the cars, they tackled the people in the open with headlong leaps. Some of the refugees tried to use whatever was at hand to defend themselves. The drone cameras relayed frame after frame of brutal images as the hopeless battle proceeded, and the refugees were torn limb from limb. The drone caught the images of people ripping men, women, and children apart with their hands and teeth in shocking detail and relayed those images far to the north.

  The Nightwing continued to circle the action and followed the advancing mob until it was within sight of the Army defenders near Monterrey. As the first artillery rounds began to fall among them, sending torn bodies flying into the skies, the drone ran out of power and spiraled to the ground.

  * * *

  “Jesus, Kathy!”

  Kathy Clifford sat staring at the monitor, unable to move or to believe what she’d seen. The streaming service took the video down after only a brief time online. Maybe she’d made a mistake making it a live feed.

  “Jesus Christ, Kathy!” the voice behind her repeated, louder and with an edge of insanity to it this time.

  “Shut up, Marc; I’m trying to think.”

  In almost 20 years as a journalist, Kathy Clifford had seen her share of death and crime. In the Middle East, she’d watched jihadists beheading women for secretly attending school, and in Africa she’d photographed the mass graves of villagers who’d taken help from Christian missionaries to feed their children. Nothing came close to matching the horror she’d just witnessed.

  Marc was whimpering and shaking his head. He grabbed a tablet computer and did something on it; she wasn’t sure what, and she didn’t care. The notion that this was some elaborate hoax or a government-conspiracy false-flag operation was eliminated as soon as she saw those people die horribly and brutally on the lonely Mexican highway. It was all in living color and now recor
ded on the hard drive of her laptop computer. She had what she’d gone out to get when she’d “borrowed” the GNN Nightwing news drone. It could well be the news story of the year…of the decade…of the millennium!

  Her computer chirped to notify her of an incoming “high priority email.” The technology director at GNN had noticed her accessing their high-priced asset and wanted to know what the fuck she was doing. Kathy ignored it as she chewed her thumbnail and thought furiously. A few minutes later her phone rang with an incoming call from GNN. She continued to ignore everything. At some point Marc wandered off. He was sitting at his desk on the other side of the room, shaking his head and mumbling something that sounded like a prayer.

  “God won’t help you now,” she said under her breath.

  Kathy accessed the news services and government databases, looking for something about what she’d seen, anything at all.

  “Mexican Diplomats Curiously Silent,” one headline read. “Agents of U.S. Customs & Border Patrol Stop All Train Traffic through the Laredo Port of Entry into Mexico,” another announced. “Families Complain to the State Department about Inability to Reach Family Members in Mexico,” was the most concerning headline. It felt like a news blackout to her, and it made Kathy furious. She couldn’t be the only reporter aware that a crazy war was underway in Mexico…could she?