The Surge - 03 (2 page)

The captain lowered his binoculars and flashed a sly grin, “That has to suck, Gunnery Sergeant. They’re earning their pay today; that’s for sure. Good job on picking the location. I’ll have to remember this little house of horrors.”

It was the non-commissioned officer’s turn to scan the canyon, the three stripes and crossed Garand rifles on his sleeve partially hidden as he lifted his own optic. “Yes, sir. That surely is one bitch of a hump. Don’t mess with Texas.”

The two Marines continued to observe the training exercise, watching a platoon-sized line of men slowly snake their way along a treacherous, nearly vertical wall of sun-bleached rock and yellowish sandstone.

Further below, the canyon’s floor was littered with immense slabs of limestone protruding at harsh angles. The debris of erosion, massive sections of rock rested in haphazard, random heaps after being washed away and collapsing from the high walls. Some the boulders were the size of a single-family home.

Other formations appeared to be ready to join their demoted cousins at the bottom, their sharp, knife-like edges protruding from the cliff face, waiting for the next flood to send them tumbling down the wall.

“What’s this place called again?” the officer asked.

“Eagle’s Nest Creek, sir,” replied the gunny. “I grew up in a town named Langtry that’s just up the road. I remember climbing around these formations as a kid. I thought it would provide a worthy test for our little band of gung-ho raiders.”

The officer whistled his approval, “You can say that again.” The captain took his attention away from the column of struggling men and swept the surrounding area. To the south, only a few hundred meters away was the Rio Grande. Mexico was clearly visible on the far side of the river, the neighboring country’s terrain looking just as foreboding. “Isn’t Langtry where that famous hanging judge was from?” the officer asked, his eyes still tight against the binoculars.

“Yes, sir. That would be Judge Roy Bean, the only law west of the Pecos River … or so he claimed. There’s even a museum in the town dedicated to him.” Normally, the sergeant wouldn’t have been so talkative, but it was well known that his commander, not being from Texas, was a bit of a buff when it came to local lore and legend.

The captain returned his gaze to the Marines below and then checked his watch. A glance at the setting sun seemed to confirm his thoughts. “Looks like it’s going to be several more hours before they negotiate that canyon. The darkness will slow them down even more.”

Wiping the sweat from his brow, the officer then had another thought. “At least it will cool off a little after the sun goes down.”

The sergeant hadn’t been asked a question or issued an order, so he held his tongue. Remembering how cold this part of Texas could get after sunset, a wisp of pity crossed his mind as he watched one of the trainees slide several feet down an embankment.
It will cool off all right
, he thought.
They’ll be shivering in their own salt within an hour.
      

After the secession, the border patrol had ceased to exist in the republic. While the new immigration policy implemented by Austin was supposed to eliminate the need for illegal crossings, the young nation’s leadership fully understood that drug trafficking would still be an issue.

The solution proved relatively simple. Thousands of new soldiers, sailors, and airmen had relocated to the Lone Star nation as part of the treaty. They had to be garrisoned and trained. The vast, open spaces along the border with Mexico seemed like the perfect location. Two government birds could be killed with one stone.

New bases were hastily constructed, the effort reminding some historians of the massive military expansion the United States accomplished in the early months of World War II. The Rio Grande Valley was now dotted with installations ranging from live-fire ranges to schools for Special Forces and Marines.

The only immigrants rejected from the newly expanded ports of entry were those with a criminal record. Word quickly spread throughout South America and Mexico, resulting in far fewer individuals trying to sneak into Texas. Those that did make the attempt were either felons or smugglers of narcotics and other contraband.

The Texas military had all the high-tech systems and mechanical toys any soldier could dream of. Everything from drones to sophisticated radar as well as satellites and spy planes that circled the globe. However, all required training and skilled personnel. Why not deploy these assets along the border and give the troops a real-world ‘sandbox’ to practice their craft?

Eagle’s Nest Creek was providing just such a test site at the moment.

“Let’s break out those sandwiches, Gunny. Looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”

On the other side of the river, Juan shut down the engine powering his dilapidated 1981 Ford pickup and scanned the surrounding desert with a keen eye. Nothing out of the ordinary met his gaze.

Once a week, for the past six months, he’d driven the beat-up old truck to this very spot.

He always waited until the sun was almost down, the slightly cooler air making his task a bit more palatable. Pulling a machete from the passenger seat, he stepped toward the path that would take him down to the Rio Grande and the shoreline of high bamboo shoots that bordered the great river’s southern bank.

Juan’s village was just over 10 kilometers away. A small community of peasant farmers, the people were poor, mostly uneducated, and isolated from the rest of the world.

Bamboo was an important building material to the village, used for everything from roofs to fences. Adobe and stone walls were reinforced by the stout shafts that played much the same role as rebar in concrete structures.

Lately, there had been a bonus crop growing along the ancient waterway – cattails were plentiful this year, much to the delight of his neighbors and friends. Everything from bread to toothpaste could be made from the shallow-water crop, the nutritious tubers one of the local favorites.

A few weeks ago, another windfall had come Juan’s way.

A group of strangers had arrived in the settlement’s dirt square and had begun asking a lot of questions. Juan knew right away the new arrivals were “Soldado de la nacho,” or night soldiers … cartel shooters … banditos.

The simple folk of the hamlet weren’t overly concerned. They had nothing to steal other than the younger women of the community, and there were few of those who had not moved to the metropolitan areas to make money and find husbands. Many of the locals simply made the sign of the cross in hopes of banishing evil and went on about their business. They realized they lacked resources to challenge the visitors if they did decide to cause trouble.

When the group of compañeros began asking about activity along the river, Juan was thrust uncomfortably into the limelight. They soon put him at ease, however, offering American cigarettes and waving around handfuls of pesos in exchange for information.

Twice more they returned, each time seeking out Juan and asking about his ventures to the bamboo fields along the river. His answers were always honest and seemed to encourage the younger men. He never saw any activity along the gringos’ side of the river. No hikers, policia, or military. Only the occasional small herd of cattle, and once, months ago, a rancher had waved to him from the northern bank.

Identifying themselves as brothers of the Gulf Cartel, they had made Juan an offer he couldn’t refuse. It was a simple thing, requiring very little risk and offering an enormous reward.

Arriving at the edge of a sheer cliff, the old villager stared down at the Rio Grande as if gazing at a beautiful señorita. The great river had always provided for his family, and today, it was going to make him a wealthy man. At least by local standards.

Hefting his machete, Juan continued down the narrow path that led to the river below. The only thing different about today’s trip was the whistle clasped tightly in his hand. His instructions were simple enough. If he saw or heard anything unusual, he was to blow on the device as loudly as his lungs could manage.

He kept a sharp lookout, scanning with more focus than usual, looking for anything out of the ordinary on the northern side of the waterway. There was nothing. Nada. Only the same barren landscape that had met his gaze for the last few decades.

Back at the pinnacle of the canyon, the bamboo covering the bed of Juan’s pickup rustled with activity. Gloved hands pushed aside the thin layer of stalks, revealing five men hiding beneath the green screen.  A few moments later, they were pouring over the ancient Ford’s rusty fenders. Two more emerged from similar camouflage covering the small trailer hitched to the old truck.

The seven masked faces scanned right and left, Mexican military-issued FX-05 battle rifles sweeping the surrounding countryside. 

Had there been anyone there to witness their actions, the onlooker would have surely thought he was seeing a small squad of Special Forces troopers readying for an operation. Such an observation would have been based on not only the body armor, load vests bulging with equipment, and heavy packs, but the coordination and controlled movements of the armed men.

That conclusion wouldn’t have been in error. After the rise of the Los Zetas, all of the organizations that made up Mexico’s patchwork of organized crime had begun recruiting from Mexico’s elite Special Forces, or the Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales. Such men could make 100 times their military salary working for the cartels while at the same time enjoying better equipment, quarters, and leadership.

In less than a minute, the squad wound down the trail, moving swiftly for concealment. They would wait to cross the river after nightfall.

The lieutenant’s ire was directed at the gunnery sergeant. While the captain had issued the orders designating Eagle’s Nest as the training area, the younger officer was certain this particular hell on earth was the gunny’s doing.

For 11 hours, his unit had struggled through the impossible terrain. With the blistering heat, leg-biting cactus, and jagged rocks, he’d been cut, gashed, poked, and burned to the point where he regretted ever joining the Republic of Texas Marine Corps.

The nightmare had intensified after sunset; his lead element slowed to a crawl by the low light conditions.

Now a new challenge was impeding their progress. The temperature had fallen like the stones that surrounded them, dropping 40 degrees in less than 90 minutes. Strained, sweat-soaked bodies began to shiver and cramp. Men had trouble maintaining their footing and handholds. The unit had suffered a twisted ankle and a nasty laceration in just the last 15 minutes.

For the tenth time, the LT considered calling over his radio man and throwing in the towel. He would broadcast his surrender to the captain and resign his commission in the morning. He was probably going to be given a reprimand anyway. His personnel file would be flush with negative entries that denoted how he’d failed to execute even the simplest field exercise. They were hours behind schedule. They had training causalities. He’d failed.

The young officer could just hear the captain’s harsh words. “How can you lead men into battle if you can’t even manage to move a small unit from point A to point B? There wasn’t even anyone shooting at you, Lieutenant! How can the soldiers under your command possibly hope to survive a hostile encounter? What the hell are you going to do when high-velocity shit is flying at your head? Pick up your smartphone, call mommy, and tell her you want to quit?”