The Battle for Houston...The Aftermath

by T I WADE

  “I’m sorry, Señor,” stated Lieutenant Paul looking as humble as an ugly guy like him could, “but we were told to come over to tell you about three missiles and a launcher which we saw undamaged in the first attack with the American fighter jets.”

  “Si, Señor, we wanted permission to take a jeep and go back to get them,” added Charlie Meyers also nearly bowing and also looking as humble as he could.

  “What do you think, Alberto? Should these guys go all the way back to Interstate-10? Can they make it in this weather?” Paul and Meyers saw the resemblance of brothers in the men and knew that they had hit pay dirt.

  “Manuel, if they want to go back, let them, they look mean enough to look after themselves. Where are you from?” asked Alberto Calderón getting interested in the men.

  The three Colombian leaders in front of the two lieutenants were tired, dirty and covered in dried blood from multiple cuts, scratches and bruises. The brother who had ordered them over, Manuel, by the sound of it, looked the worst having a closed and swollen black eye and a deep gash down the same left side of his face.

  “Panama, but we live in America, in San Antonio, and we joined Pedro’s army there. I’m also Pedro, this is my brother, Charlie, and my other brother Antonio…”

  “Thank you for joining us,” interrupted Manuel not wanting to really know their names. “Go back to the guard you met outside; he is one of my commanders and get him to give you a good jeep with a roof. It is worth the effort, three missiles. Now go; and I want you back in twelve hours and bring them directly to me.”

  “Hold on!” stated Alberto interrupting his brother. “You look familiar to me. Charlie, now that’s a funny name for a Panamanian. Also you and your men are pretty clean and even clean shaven compared to us. Am I missing anything here, Señor Charlie?”

  “I think we fought together in Medellin, Colombia in 2010 against those American soldiers. My friends in America call me Charlie. Remember, the American soldiers, they attacked us at that coffee company when we had their hostages and when we all left, I got out over the back wall,” stated Charlie Meyers.

  He was actually right. Seal Team Six had gone into the coffee company to capture two CIA hostages in 2010, who were being held there by an unknown cartel. He didn’t know if these were the same people but he was sure they knew about the attack by the American Special Forces. The hostages were already dead.

  ”We are always clean shaven for the ladies, Señor Alberto. You never know these days when you might come across a nice girl and me and my brothers consider that the cleanest and smartest one of us might win the poor girl’s heart,” Charlie joked getting the response he was looking for and showing that he certainly wasn’t scared to stand up to the leaders. He knew that a joke always eased discussions amongst men.

  “That wasn’t me, Charlie Mendoza, that was my younger brother Pedro, who was there. You must have been one of the lucky ones to escape, not many did. Now go and get these missiles, and we can talk about bringing you and your mean-looking brothers into the forward army when you return. And I hope you fight as good as you chase women, Señor Charlie, or you might not see many more women in your lifetime!” Alberto and his brothers laughed at this one as well as the dozens of men listening in to the rhetoric.

  “Si, Señor,” answered Charlie looking down like a naughty kid in class.

  The three Calderón brothers were a mean-looking bunch with their scratches and bruises. The Seal Team put the three enemy faces into memory and figured out who was who. They knew that the meanest-looking one who had asked the first question was the leader, Manuel. He was extremely dirty, looking like he had been in several muddy ditches in the last day or so.

  They now knew that Alberto was in charge of the second group and the youngest brother Pedro in charge of the larger rear army.

  The dozen Seals, half of whom had stayed behind their leaders to hide their faces in the dimly lit area surrounding the meeting, bowed out of the meeting to follow orders. Alberto shouted at one man to guide them to the outside man and tell him to give them a jeep.

  Outside the weather had returned, the rain was dense and the two rebels had to shout at each other to get their words across. The order was given to find a jeep, and the outside guard nodded to the inside guard and headed underneath the terminal to the baggage area, beckoning the twelve men to follow him.

  “How you fat load of men are going to fit into one jeep, I don’t know,” he shouted smiling at Charlie walking next to him “I have a good Mexican troop transporter that has a good roof and it might be better to get through the destruction on the highways. It has four-wheel drive, a full fuel tank, and is very old but in good condition,” he stated, sounding more like a car salesman than a Colombian cartel commander.

  They reached dry air inside the baggage area which had several hundred of the best vehicles they had yet to see. It seemed that these vehicles must belong to the first group, Manuel’s group, as there were Panamanian, Honduran, Mexican, several American vehicles and even a line of civilian four-wheel drive trucks with Colombian number plates. They all had very bald tires, showing that they had certainly travelled a far distance.

  Charlie Meyers/Mendoza and Lieutenant Paul jumped into the cab, and Charlie started up the troop carrier; the rest of the men jumped into the rear, thanked the guard who was lighting a cigarette in the dryness of the protected area, and drove out into the semi-blindness of the drenching, side-swept rain storm.

  “We need to get back to the other guys and use the radio to contact the Marines further north,” shouted Lieutenant Paul to Charlie Meyers.

  “I think we drive straight up to the jeep on the corner and tell them what we are doing. That should keep them from becoming inquisitive,” Charlie replied. Paul nodded and they drove slowly to where they had found the first jeep on the corner of the northern terminal.

  The jeep was gone, but there was an American troop carrier on guard with a cloth roof fighting the wind and the rain. They drove up to the other vehicle and sided in as close as they could.

  A new man looked out from the half open window and waited for Charlie to speak.

  “We have orders from Manuel and Alberto Calderón to head back to the Interstate to pick up some missile launchers!” Charlie shouted in Spanish at the top of his voice.

  “You are going the wrong way, this is north and you need to go west and then south!” the ugly face shouted back.

  “This is the direction we came in after we found the airport fence. We should go the way we came in, or we will get lost in this weather!” Charlie shouted back.

  The man nodded and closed his window, and Charlie drove forward, losing sight of the American truck within a hundred feet. It just disappeared into the lousy weather.

  As soon as they were hidden by the weather, Charlie stopped the truck and switched off the engine. It was doubtful that the other members of Seal Team Six had heard the truck’s movement; they were still a couple of hundred feet south of the bridge. On foot the two lieutenants found the bridge. It was easily reached, and the weather was now so bad that it didn’t look like a bridge at all.

  “The whole bloody South American population is in the terminals three hundred yards south of here!” shouted Lieutenant Paul to Lieutenant Murphy and the rest of the men,. The noise of the wind and rain was deafening. “I need to see if we can get anybody on the radio.”

  “We already have,” replied Murphy. “There is some nut up there flying around in an airplane in this weather. I’m sure I recognized the admiral’s voice. That guy is sure taking a chance.”

  “Charlie Six, Charlie Six here requesting to give information to any friends listening. Over!” shouted Charlie Meyers into the headset.

  “Hi Charlie Six. This is a friend. It’s a crappy day. Over!” came a voice Charlie Meyers knew was Admiral Rogers. Even though he recognized the voice he still had to go through the daily code system. If his reply was also that it was a crappy day, then he was being coerced into the ra
dio communications as a captive. If he said it was a beautiful day, then he was talking freely.

  “It’s a beautiful day down here, friend,” he replied.

  “Well it’s getting bad up here, Charlie Six, and I was about to return north. What have you got for me? You have friends a couple of miles north and a second group ten miles west of you who are listening in; confirm, please?”

  “Mike Two, reading you loud and clear,” stated a Marine in the railway yard.

  “Mike One, reading you faint, but OK,” stated Lieutenant Colonel Clarke now at the first attack intersection.”

  “Mike One, we are coming towards you, will be leaving our location immediately for your position. Look out for us in one Mexican painted M35, a “deuce and a half” troop transporter; I repeat one Mexican troop vehicle only. We need to find any unused ground-to-air missiles and any launchers your men might have found in their searches of the combat areas. We are on a delicate mission, and you may disarm them if you wish as we need to hand them over to the enemy to gain favor.”

  “Roger that, Charlie Six. We have found a shoulder launcher and one missile so far. I will check to see if any of my squads have found or seen any more. I will tell my men about your approach, I assume from our north?”

  “Roger, from your north on the highway, Mike One. Friend in the sky and all friends on the ground, I believe the whole rebel force is in the Intercontinental airport, thousands and thousands of men and vehicles. We introduced ourselves to their leaders, pretty decent, but very dirty fellows with good upbringings!” smiled Charlie Meyers into the headset. This was always appreciated by the people listening to him and was his signature that it was really him.

  “How many do you guess?” asked Admiral Rogers. Charlie shouted to the men around him for estimates on how many they had seen and he took the average.

  “We saw at least 10,000 to 20,000, and considering the size of the covered areas, there must be 100,000 to 150,000. I counted over 1,000 vehicles, 20-odd howitzers behind old Mexican and American camouflaged M35s, hundreds of heavy machine guns, and truckloads of weapons. We didn’t see much food stocks but there were a couple of dozen Mexican painted M35s set off to one side. One had cases of jerky, corned beef and friendly U.S. MRE rations on the ground behind it. We saw only a third of the whole under-terminal area and two warehouses. The leaders and commanders are pretty beat up but still well armed…”

  “…Mike One, here” interrupted Lieutenant Colonel Clarke “I have reports of trucks incoming from our south, looks like 40 to 50 troop carriers. Orders please?”

  “Suggestion, Charlie Six?” asked the admiral.

  “Depends on what you want us to do,” replied Charlie Meyers. “It will be suicide to take the leaders out. We don’t have enough men on the ground, and we’ll be toast with their numbers. Extraction might be possible in the future, and if that is what you want friend, then we think the trucks should be left alone, unless they have seen you, Mike One.”

  “They haven’t seen us; I left a surveillance group with a radio a few miles behind us. We can disappear if you want. It’s not that difficult in this weather.”

  “Do you believe an extraction is possible, Charlie Six? And who are the leaders?” asked the admiral.

  “What do you think we are friend, green behind the ears? Of course extraction is possible! It will just take a little time. Extraction is three bad boys: Manuel, Alberto and Pedro Calderón out of Colombia who are the head of operations; that should cut the head off the snake, and make it easier for others to tread on it if we extract them.”

  “Extraction is a go, Charlie Six. Extraction is confirmed, but I cannot get you out by air until this weather blows over. Mike One, get hidden and allow their vehicles through. Charlie Six, if you can extract before we can get to you, I will leave Mike Two in place and Mike One will join them. Mike One, head for the town of Spring; Mike Two, guide Mike One in to your location when necessary. I have to leave, there are no more aircraft dropping friends until this hurricane heads out. By the way, you are to be hit by a Hurricane Three in about six hours and it should last at least 24 hours. Get down and get covered. Out!”

  Towards the end, Charlie Myers could hardly hear the admiral; the weather was getting worse, and they needed to get the equipment from Lieutenant Colonel Clarke’s team ASAP.

  * * *

  The admiral’s pilots were fighting the aircraft, which was hitting painful up and down turbulence constantly. They were happy to get the nod to turn the aircraft northwards from a smiling admiral. Judging from the smile on his face, they understood that the news they had all heard must have been good.

  An hour later and 300 miles north of Houston and halfway to McConnell Air Force Base in Wichita, Admiral Rogers got into contact with the radio operator on duty. The winds had certainly died down and they were flying out of the really bad weather.

  “Get me PattersonKey on set,” demanded the admiral sipping a hot cup of coffee now that it was possible.

  “Wait one,” replied the operator and several minutes later General Patterson’s voice came over the radio.

  “PattersonKey here,”

  “Is our friend Carlos anywhere close, he needs to hear what I have to say,” stated the admiral. It took several more minutes and the general acknowledged that they were both listening.

  “Enemy rebel force holed up at Houston Intercontinental, approximately 150,000 men and 3,000 vehicles. They are heavily armed and dangerous. Head of rebel army is Manuel, Alberto and Pedro Calderón from your part of the woods, Carlos. I’ve confirmed a possible extraction and will brief you more once I get back in an hour. Out.”

  * * *

  Carlos smiled at the news as Admiral Rogers had done. It didn’t surprise him to find out the Calderón Cartel was behind this attack. His uncle and his father had both suggested that the ugly head of the Calderón family could appear at any time. There weren’t many other factions with the men or intelligence to attack another country, other than the whole Venezuelan army, and that was doubtful.

  It was not a sensible hour to call family, but he immediately got on the phone to his Uncle Philippe still holed up at the Colombian Embassy in Washington.

  “I would assume that your news is good at this time of the morning, Carlos?” Uncle Philippe, the Colombian Ambassador to the United States stated answering the satellite phone given to him at the beginning of the year.

  “I wouldn’t call you unless you wanted to hear the information, Uncle Philippe,” Carlos replied and told him what he had just heard from the admiral.

  “And you say Admiral Rogers just told you this a few minutes ago, and there is a hurricane about to hit the U.S.? How come your satellite didn’t detect this storm?”

  “The satellite was repositioned over Hawaii a few weeks ago for the mission into China by General Patterson and the rest of us, and it is still returning to its original orbit over Colorado, Uncle” replied Carlos.

  “So, Senator Calderón is now directly implicated in an attack on America by his sons. I have never met the three brothers, but I thought that they would be up to something when I heard about the senator’s ship arriving from Honduras, and the attack at the Panama Canal leaving all the dead Chinese soldiers. So these brothers have literally invaded Texas and are holed up in Houston in the middle of a hurricane?” Carlos acknowledged that his uncle was correct. “I will call Admiral Rodriquez on his satellite phone and my brother in Colombia. I don’t think we have enough proof to get him taken in by our men just yet, plus if Admiral Rogers has ordered an extraction, like the one his team did in Medellin for those dead CIA agents in 2010, then we can pin a lot more on his head and get rid of his family and all his other government infiltrators at one time. That will be a good day for our country, Carlos. Tell my friend the admiral to take their captives alive this time. I need as much information as possible out of them. Tell him for me, Carlos. Your father is fine. He was worried about you and where you were. I will tell him that you are st
ill alive and kicking. Keep me informed, and gracias.”

  * * *

  Martie was still feeling groggy. She had slept a little and Preston wouldn’t move from her side.

  “I want to go home Preston. There isn’t much to do here, I’m not keen on hurricanes and maybe Carlos will fly us home?”

  “I’ll go and talk to him,” Preston replied, kissed her on the cheek and headed out to find his friend.

  As usual Carlos was in the main control room and General Patterson was there too. Both were heavy in conversation, Carlos on his phone and the general on the radio to Admiral Rogers by the sounds of the voice at the other end.

  Carlos said goodbye to the person he was speaking to and told Preston that he had been talking to his uncle. General Patterson ended his radio conversation with the admiral and got on his satellite phone. Carlos brought Preston up-to-date on the latest news, and Preston was impressed with how fast the Seals got in and out. He also overheard the general calling a Marine base somewhere on the east coast and ordered out every C-130 he had within the hour; they were to be filled up with troops, and he wanted a third flight of troops into Spring, Texas ASAP.

  His next satellite call was to Andrews telling the base commander to divert the lone incoming 747 full of troops from Europe directly into McConnell; the pilot should have sufficient reserves for the extra hour of flight from Ramstein. The 747 was only an hour out of Ramstein and could be at McConnell in nine hours. The third and last call was to California, telling all the pilots and weapon systems operators who could fly the 17 Chinese helicopters to get them into McConnell within 24 hours. They would need to refuel in Hill.

  “That’s great, I’m running a war here and the techies at Edwards told me that the recommended U.S. Air Force paint jobs on the Chinese helicopters would not be dry in 24 hours. I don’t care if the helicopters are pink with purple polka dots; I want them ready to fight a war. Who ordered them to be painted anyway? It will totally freak out the enemy when they are being fired on by Chinese aircraft. Carlos, I think you would put the wind in their sails when the Calderón brothers see your Colombian aircraft flying around the skies. That reminds me!”