by Reed Hill
They were in the median still about twenty yards from the main gate in the scrubby median between the two lanes. The SWAT van was straddling the median behind them about fifteen yards away. The sides looked like Swiss cheese from the bullet holes, but it appeared to be still running. Puffs of steam and gray smoke shot from under the hood.
“Contact left!” Schmidt shouted, spying movement in the tree line up on the large mulched berm. Instinctively, he fired a three-round volley and scanned the trees. “Multiple targets flanking us.”
“Copy that,” Aguado looked to the opposite side. “We have multiple hostiles, right side. They’re maneuvering for firing position.” The stubby officer fired off a torrent of shots in that direction. “We need to move. We’re gonna be ducks on the pond here.”
He shook his head, clearing the last of the fog and crouched when three or four more rounds struck the ground near their feet. “The van is still running.” Schmidt pointed to the white SWAT van sitting askew on the median, rear wheels still on the road. “Get to it and we can get out of here.” He looked back at the DAP briefly, “We’ll have to come back for these guys later.”
“Cover my six. I’m going for it.” Aguado fired several barrages as he began a crouching run to the driver’s side door. Schmidt fired multiple three-round volleys as Aguado ran to the open door and jumped in. “I’ve got you covered from this side,” Aguado shouted as several bullets hit the front windshield and front hood. “Make a break for it!”
Schmidt took a breath and stepped away from the lifeboat of the DAP, his first few steps on wobbly legs. It seemed like was moving in sand, his legs fatigued and cramping, and he stumbled and nearly dropped the rifle. As he grabbed the passenger front door, he saw the muzzle flash of Aguado squaring down on five or six thugs in the tree line to his side.
“Changing!” Aguado shouted, pulling the magazine from the M-16 and replacing it with a fresh one with a slap to its bottom.
“I’m in,” Schmidt slammed the door shut and hunkered low in the seat. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He could see several Mexican heavies with rifles take aim from his side of the road, in the trees. The side mirror just a foot away from his face exploded, and Schmidt felt small pieces of glass hit his goggles and helmet. His chin suddenly stung as he motioned for Aguado to start the van, “Let’s do it – get this rig going!”
Aguado instinctively turned the ignition, getting a tinny screech from under the hood. “Dammit!” He pounded his hand on the steering wheel.
“It’s already running – just go!”
Aguado slammed the shifter into ‘Drive’ and hit the gas. The van hiccupped and sputtered a bit as it lurched forward. The engine fought painfully like a cat coughing a hairball as they made the turn away from the fight. It was going to be Oscar-Oscar-Charlie – out of commission – pretty soon, but they just needed a bit mileage between them and the bad guys right now. They ran over a bush in the median and pulled away from the gate area heading down the boulevard and gaining speed. Bullets pelted the rear as Schmidt looked around for bogeys. He glanced in the back of the van. Two fallen SWAT team members lay in the back in pools of blood. There were no signs of the other two SWAT team members.
“Goddamn! Son of a bitch!” Schmidt pounded his fist on the dashboard. He couldn’t believe he lost his whole team. “This op is thoroughly dicked. Get us back to Brackin ASAP. I need to debrief with DHS – this engagement was jacked from the start.” Freaking anti-tank RPGs. We never had a chance.
*****
Texas State Guard – Domestic Operations - Command, Intelligence and Control Center
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 11:10 a.m.
“Thank you for joining the call gentlemen,” General Stein began politely as Dinger shifted in his office chair, “and thanks to General Dinger for giving us the background and the current SITREP.” Dinger had begun the call by running down the report and timeline of events that Theroux had prepared at 1020 hours. It was a damning report, detailing a security failure that was nothing short of catastrophic. Dinger was sure that the Regimental commanders and their executive officers on the phone with them were as resolved as he was to make it right.
“General Dinger and I have been in communication with the Governor, who is on his way to San Antonio as we speak. When he gets there, he will announce that our border has suffered a deliberate attack and that the Regiments are assembling in full to assist the four areas hardest hit by the assault: McAllen, El Paso, Laredo and Del Rio.
“As you know, the order for assembly went out calling for all Texas Guard to group up by unit at their defined locales. What is before us now is the formation of our overall plan of attack for what I’m calling Operation Hammer. As of now, we have no federal assistance, so we need to plan accordingly. For whatever reason, they are taking the stance of advising only at the moment, and the Governor and the command staff believe that we cannot wait any longer for the U.S. Government to give us permission to defend ourselves. To that end, General Phelps, would you give us the situation on our air assets?”
General Phelps, the Commander of the Texas Air Guard chimed in. “Yes, sir. As most of you know, we technically lease our aircraft from the U.S. Air Force, and at this time do not have authorization to use them. The issue at hand is two-fold from my discussions with the Air Force commanders at NORTHCOM: One, the Governor has not requested any air combat assistance from federal command authority to this point. That’s obviously a prominent issue. Second, is the problem of the proper and legal identification of insurgents as foreign enemies engaged in hostile action on U.S. soil.”
General Dinger broke in as Phelps paused, “You’re going to need to break that down for us, General Phelps.”
“The ‘drone strike’ provisions of NDAA-II complicated the federal forces’ ability to target and interdict our citizens on U.S. soil. The long and short of it is, we can’t summarily attack U.S. citizens on our soil, and all intelligence suggests that the insurgents in fairly large numbers are, in fact, citizens with protected due process rights.“
When the expansion of the National Defense Authorization Act was passed in 2014, there were provisions written in the law about air strikes by our military and military assets against U.S. citizens. It was dubbed the “drone strike” provision after a successful Senate filibuster prevented language which would have allowed the use of drones, and summarily executed air attacks generally, against U.S. citizens deemed “dangerous” by the Administration.
General Hum Dinger broke in at this point, “And as of now, we’re having a damn hard time determining who among the insurgents is a citizen and who is not. That makes air-based strikes pretty hard to pull off without getting in hot water legally speaking.”
“Indeed it does,” General Phelps said. “I was told right now by the executive officer of General Hastings – Air Forces Commander for NORTHCOM – that ‘We cannot provide personnel or assets for anything other than reconnaissance or intelligence gathering at this time.’ with no further explanation. When I asked under what circumstances could they be provided, the answer was ‘that has yet to be determined’ so it is rather disturbing on the whole. I’m not sure what the hold-up is.”
“That’s the same story I’ve received from Fort Hood and 3rd Corps regarding heavy armor. They aren’t releasing heavy armor to fire on U.S. citizens and U.S. property and infrastructure. They have told me to remain in contact with INSCOM for intelligence support out of Fort Sam Houston.”
There were a few murmurs and stifled groans, but most on the line remained silent.
“Suffice it to say gentleman,” General Phelps began again, “that it is very good that our recent administrations in Austin have seen fit to provide generously for the Texas Guard in a period where the U.S. has reduced its troop strength. In the past five years, the U.S. has cut back military personnel by forty percent and Defense spending overall by almost fifty percent – in that period we’re actually up twenty percent in troops and fifteen pe
rcent in overall spending thanks to our budget surpluses.”
Dinger thought that it was just as well. The U.S. military had become more of a playground for ladies, fairies and yuppies wanting to pave a path to a political career than a fighting force the past decade. It was one of the main factors that drove him to retire from the Air Force seven years ago and move to the Texas Guard. Dinger spat a mouthful of chaw juice into the trash can by his desk. It would be a goddamn miracle if half the U.S. troops would actually fire their weapons at the enemy, if there was a real engagement.
After a momentary pause, General Stein came back in. “Operation Hammer will launch at 0600 hours tomorrow, which means we have a less than twenty hours to develop battle plans for each of the four engagement zones. I want the Regimental Commanders to look at Terrain, Time and Tactics considerations in light of your troop strength and environmental factors in your respective zones.
“8th Regiment, your objectives are for zone one, McAllen and surrounding area.”
“Roger that,” the response from the Regimental commander was immediate and firm.
“1st Regiment, you and your men are tasked with zone two, in Laredo.”
“Roger, sir.”
“2nd Regiment, you have the tough task of recovering El Paso, zone four. You ready for that?”
“Yes, sir. The west Texas boys are hungry.”
“So, that leaves Del Rio,” General Stein paused. “I’m moving the 4th and the 19th Regiments from Alert status to active. That combined unit will operate jointly, since they are our smallest units. Their objectives will be focused on zone three, in Del Rio. I expect them to be fifty percent assembled, briefed and combat capable by 0600 hours tomorrow, so put some boot to butts to make it happen.”
A pair of “Roger” replies came rapidly.
“I’m ordering the 39th to assemble and make ready in support of zone four and zone three, whichever may require assistance.”
“Wilco, sir, we’ll get them ready.”
There was a bit of a pause and General Stein sighed into the phone. Dinger furrowed his brow – Stein sounded a bit nervous, which was quite a departure for the stoic Tennessee man. “I want initial battle plans to review in five hours. We’ll meet again at 1600 to review and assess initial plans. Use this conference line – a new passcode will be texted to you by 1530.”
Dinger filled the pause, “We will keep you all aware as best we can, from the CIC, of developing intel that could affect your planning. Major Theroux and I will be disseminating information as it becomes available throughout the day.”
“You have your orders gentlemen,” Stein intoned slowly. “Twenty-four hours and we will take our state back.”
*****
Outside Barksdale, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 11:30 a.m.
Nick Brodie watched the cedar trees roll by as they hugged the curve of County Road 335 speeding south, heading toward Camp Woods. They had followed the dusty, two-lane that bent and curved in conjunction with Hackberry creek until it ran into the Nueces River. The hill country was sure a beautiful place with its gentle rolling hills and rocky creeks. One of Brodie’s favorite fly fishing spots wasn’t but ten miles east over at Bullhead Creek by the big bend before it emptied into the Nueces. He loved to take Sam and Jack there, even if they didn’t catch anything. Sam was ten and starting to catch on to some of how the game of fishing was done, but at only seven Jack just liked being out with his dad and big brother. It was so much fun to put on a pheasant-tail nymph or a midge in the fall when it started to get cool outside and just tease the fish. With the boys it was all fun though, and he never worried about what he caught and what he didn’t. Brodie bit his lip thinking about the kids and Sara. He sure hoped nothing was going haywire at his place while he was out running around the countryside looking out for other people’s communities.
“Brodie, this is Mac, come in,” Mac Harris’s voice came in on the CB. Brodie was greatly reassured when Harris and his crew were able to hook back up with them shortly after eleven o’clock. Harris had reported that twenty able-bodied men and teen boys from in and around Rocksprings had responded to Sherriff Johnson’s call for aid within a half an hour. Fifteen minutes later they had broken into squads and started patrolling the area.
“Brodie here, go ahead Mac.”
“I caught some cross-talk on channel thirty-seven when I was doing a scan. I think we should check it out.”
Brodie re-fit the mic in his hand, “Copy, switching to channel three-seven.”
They were within a mile or two of the little town of Barksdale, and the stone walls of Camp Fawcett came into view as they made the wide turn away from the river toward town. The voices on the CB came alive as they saw the sign for the Boy Scouts campground, “—we’re hurting here. We ran them off but J.T. took a bullet, over.”
A different voice broke in, “Okay, we’ll keep our eyes peeled. Did you see which way they went, over?”
“No, they tore off out of the park and we had to re-group and tend to J.T.”
Brodie tuned the squelch a bit on his CB and chimed in, “Break, this is November Bravo monitoring channel thirty-seven. My men and me encountered some bad guys earlier today, and we’re just outside of Barksdale at Camp Fawcett. Do you require assistance? We have water and first aid, over.”
“Copy that November Bravo,” the voice said slowly, “we’re at Camp Fawcett now, had a run-in with a group of hoods, no more than five minutes ago. They roughed us up pretty good, and one of our guys is down with a gunshot wound. We need to get him to the clinic, over.”
“Copy, we’re in two trucks and a green Tahoe, and turning into the camp right now,” Brodie started to wheel into the campground and he noticed the steel gate was off its hinges, broken. “Say your position.”
“At the back of the camp. Two trucks, There’s five of us. You can’t miss us, over.”
“Copy, we’re coming in.”
It took under a minute to get to the back of the Boy Scout camp, and Brodie could see the two trucks parked under a couple of tall oak trees. A short man in a t-shirt and jeans gave them a wave as the others stood by a young guy sprawled on a picnic bench clutching a red bandana to his side.
Brodie and the guys exited his 4x4 and walked over to the small man who appeared to be in his mid-forties and sported a holstered revolver on his right hip.
He stuck out his hand, “I’m Nick Brodie.” He gestured to the others as they made their way out of the vehicles and gathered by Brodie. “You guys ran into some trouble I see. Mark get the first aid kit would you? Maybe you and Kirk can see what you can do for him.”
“I’ll take a look at him,” John Finnegan stepped forward. “I’m a trained EMT and fireman. Kerrville Fire Department.”
John Finnegan and Mark Simmons jumped back into the truck and started looking for the first aid kit.
“God’s honest truth, yes we did.” The small man rubbed the back of his neck, “Name’s Harlan Westgate, and that’s my son Bud over there.” A small, lean kid of nineteen waved and put his attention back on his friend. “His friend Jimmy Thomas took the bullet. That other’n there is Jimmy’s father Bill. Fred Macon is in my truck on the CB trying to find some help.”
Seeing the boy wince holding his bloody side, Brodie flashed for a split second back to Afghanistan. Private Hicks is down! The skinny young enlisted man moaned as he clutched his side lying in the dust. ‘Help me Captain, Brodie. It hurts real, real bad. Can you do something for me?’ Medic! We need a medic over here!
A door slammed and Brodie saw a chubby man about fifty with a thick goatee, and a John Deere mesh cap, walk over from the maroon ½ ton truck, “Harlan, that group of guys down by Camp Wood said they’d be up here in a couple minutes.” The man straightened his overworked belt and smoothed his shirt a bit. “Hey y’all, I’m Fred. Fred Macon,” he extended his hand to Brodie.
“Looks like the bullet grazed his side just above his hip – bled like a son-of-a-gun, but it’s not serious,”
Finnegan scrubbed blood from his hands with an alcohol wipe.
“He’s a lucky kid – a few inches to the right and….” Mark Simmons stopped himself and cracked open a bottle of water and poured it on the wound which made the young man squirm and hiss like a snake.
“We’ll get him patched up, but he should probably see a doctor for it, to make sure it doesn’t get infected.” Simmons wiped the wound and started taping a couple of large gauze pads on it.
Brodie was awfully glad that Mark Simmons had become a reserve Deputy for Sherriff Bosco. As part of the process, Mark and Brodie had taken a CERT course up in Junction and were certified community first responders for a bunch of different crisis situations. They got it done over a summer on Saturdays and learned basic stuff like first aid, search and rescue basics, self-organizing in crisis situations, putting out small fires and the like. Stuff pretty much any boy scout would know, which meant that ninety-nine percent of the public was clueless about it.
About that time, they heard the rumble of vehicles and turned to see three full-size trucks coming down the gravel road. They parked in a line and a tall man in jeans, a green polo shirt and a gray cutter ambled over, stroking his fierce brown mustache ahead of nine or ten other men who gathered around him. They all wore holstered sidearms and one had a short-barrel riot gun slung behind him. Most of them wore cutters or ridgetops in yellow or cream straw. A couple of the younger ones looked to prefer baseball caps. The leader was in his early fifties and placed one hand on his holstered revolver – looked like a .44 magnum long nose – and found a comfortable spot for his slightly bowed legs under him, “You’all have a bit of a scape did you?”