The Surge - 03 (31 page)

While a racial divide still existed throughout much of the West, the Latino civil rights movement lost steam during the latter portions of the 20
st
century. Some claimed it was the FBI sabotaging the leadership; others simply wrote it off to the progress that had been achieved. The Democratic Party played a role as well, making a concerted effort to integrate those with a Latin heritage into its fold.

La Raza Unified had faded as a political entity, but now the events in Mexico seemed to have reignited the concept – at least for the people directly in front of Zach’s perch.

The ranger moved on, staying well away from the main body of protestors, but close enough to study the various elements that made up the crowd. It was like strolling through a shopping mall of discontented citizenry.

The next group he encountered was a throng of younger Hispanics, all donning brown berets. Again, Zach had to search his memory of high school history classes to pull up the meaning of the color-coded headgear.       

In the decade before the secession, debates regarding immigration policy, the border fence, and an explosion of the Latino birthrate rekindled the movement for Mexican-American civil rights. Old terms began to resurface, some of the more radical elements calling for the creation of a new nation often called Aztlan. This new country would encompass much of the territory annexed from Mexico after the Mexican-American war.

University professors, state politicians, and numerous grassroots efforts had campaigned for the concept of Aztlan, calling for Texas, California, Arizona, and New Mexico to secede and began a separate country. 

Organizations such as the Brown Berets, Nation of Aztlan, and others gained national headlines during the heated immigration debates that gripped the United States shortly before the secession. Their strategy was simple and undeniable – Hispanics were having more babies than white people. In contrast, the Angelo population supported birth control and 1.8 children per household.

At the time, one state official was quoted as saying, “California is going to be a Hispanic state. Anyone who doesn't like it should leave
.”
 

There was no need for protests, marches, civil unrest, or even the formation of a new political party. European whites were growing older and dying. The era of the Chicano would eventually arrive, driven by the birthrate of future voters. The momentum and energy that once supported Aztlan were severely deflated, or so mainstream America and Texas had thought.

Zach was surprised to see hundreds of the people wearing the brown berets. Their signs and banners were professionally printed, not some last minute effort with magic markers and poster board. Of all the sub-groups making up the crowd, they seemed to be the most organized.

The ranger kept moving toward the primary police barricade. As anticipated, the closer he got to the front of the protest, the more radical the marchers became.

Scanning the crowd, Zach’s brain registered a familiar face. It was one of those fleeting images … a match from his memory … someone he just somehow
knew
he should pay attention to.

It took the Texan a few more passes before he identified the image. There, in the middle of the street, stood one of Chico’s bodyguards.

The VIP room at the gentleman’s club had been extremely dark. He’d only caught a glimpse of the man, but Zach was almost certain it was the same fellow.

There was something else suspicious about the guy.

As Zach watched Chico’s henchman, it dawned that the heavily muscled gent was much older than any of the other protestors in the area. He was also better dressed and far, far more alert to his surroundings.

Zach moved into the enclave afforded by a small dress shop when he noticed Chico’s friend was paying more attention to the surrounding crowd than any part of the protest. He was scanning the mob for someone – or something.

Chico had disappeared after the incident at the gentleman’s club. Sam had speculated that the cartel ambassador had gone underground because he didn’t trust that Zach would keep his incriminating pictures to himself. Still, the two rangers had monitored Chico’s usual haunts – all to no avail.

Now, here in the capital, right in the middle of the largest protest on record since the Vietnam War, there was one of Chico’s bodyguards. Why?

About then, the ranger noticed Mr. No-neck’s attention was focused across the street. Zach followed his gaze and spotted Chico’s second security man.

Now the Texan was certain. He’d busted #2 on a weapons charge.

“What in the hell are you up to?” Zach whispered. “Why are you here?”

The answer came a few minutes later.

Reaching inside of his jacket pocket, one of the bodyguards retrieved a glass bottle, complete with a white length of cloth protruding from the top. Zach knew immediately what it was.

The ranger pulled his .45 just as Mr. No-neck flicked a cigarette lighter. As the bodyguard reared to throw the Molotov cocktail, Zach aligned his pistol’s front post on the target’s chest.

But he couldn’t fire.

There were too many people swirling around, both in front and behind the target. Zach stepped left, and then right, trying to find a clear field of fire. He screamed, “Police!” but there was no way his voice could be heard over the roar of the crowd. The ranger watched helplessly as the goon heaved the deadly gasoline bomb toward the police barricade.

A moment later, a second missile was launched from the throng, the ranger almost certain it had come from Chico’s other playmate.

The first projectile landed in the street less than 10 feet in front of a line of officers standing behind an impressive bastion of riot shields.

With a loud whoosh, the gasoline ignited, followed by several terrified screams and countless excited shouts. Two of the horses added their protests to the disruption, rearing wild-eyed on their hind legs and nearly tossing their riders.

The cops closest to the pool of searing-hot fire backed away.

While Zach watched helplessly, the two cartel henchmen tossed more items at the police line as the crowd scrambled in all directions at once.

“They’re trying to instigate a riot,” Zach hissed, pushing his way through the swirling mass in order to reach the closest man. The effort was hopeless, hundreds of surging, screaming, panicked bodies blocking his way.

Before the ranger could even manage 20 feet, the police responded with a barrage of tear gas. In less than half a minute, 15
th
Street became a living hell.

Just as the hissing canisters of gas began enveloping the pavement with blinding, choking clouds of white fog, a young man picked one up and threw it back toward the police.

Inspired by their friend’s bravado, a wave of projectiles soon filled the air, mostly composed of anything the protestors could scavenge from the trashcans lining the sidewalks.

The first storefront window shattered a few moments later, the breakage driven by the need for something to throw back at the cops rather than any desire for the goods displayed inside the hardware store.

Zach did his best to try to find the two cartel instigators, but the task was simply impossible.

Bound and determined not to let the now-violent multitude gain any momentum, the mounted officers charged into the center of the crowd, the 25 horse-wide wedge scattering any resistance. Behind the cavalry, a wall of clear, Plexiglas riot shields marched forward, the hawk-like helmets of the police peering over the top of the bulletproof barrier as they readied their batons.

Zach didn’t want to hang around in the hope that his badge would provide immunity. It didn’t look like the APD was checking IDs.

The ranger reacted like most of the surrounding crowd, retreating down an alley and then zigzagging through several side streets until the mob had thinned.

Well away from the isolated pockets of violence still raging on 15
th
, Zach circled the dispersing crowd several times, trying in vain to catch another glimpse of the two cartel enforcers.

Finally giving up the quest, he returned to the executive offices where he found Major Putnam milling around with the few remaining rangers.

“Why would the cartel want to incite a riot?” the senior lawman asked after Zach had relayed his recent experiences. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Unknown, sir,” Zach answered honestly. “I suppose there’s a chance they were legit protestors caught up in one cause or another, but it sure seems odd that they would come prepared for battle.”

“And you never saw Chico?”

“No, sir. I did not.”

Putnam scratched his head in thought. “Having a riot in the capital is not going to play well on the airwaves this evening. The general public is already uneasy over recent events. The closed borders and unrest in Mexico are sending economic shock waves through our economy, and a lot of very important people are nervous. Add in the fact that there’s a large segment that is hopping mad that Texas was involved in bioterror research, and we’re sitting on a tinderbox. Poke around, Ranger Bass, and see what you can find. But stay close to Austin. I have a feeling we’re in for a rough ride until the situation resolves one way or the other.”

Zach wandered back to the scene where the protest had turned into an insurrection, Major Putnam’s words rolling around in the ranger’s troubled mind.

His official reason for returning was the dim hope of catching a glimpse of Chico or his crew. At least, that’s what he initially told himself.

In reality, Zach was deeply disturbed by Putnam’s attitude.

The republic’s leadership was being pulled into a game they could not win. The ranger conjured up images of Simmons and Bowmark on puppet strings, Vincent and Ghost manipulating the controls.

Zach believed both of his superiors were good, honest servants. He was also becoming increasingly convinced that Ghost and Vincent had them outmatched. Men like Bowmark and Simmons played by the rules of law and order, individual responsibility, and elected authority. It was their greatest strength, and now, their exposed vulnerability. 

The ranger walked past a row of ambulances, many of the injured, young college kids holding bloody bandages against their heads. There were cops there as well, more than a dozen officers injured in the line of duty.

These are the people of Texas
, he considered.
These are the same people that sit across the aisle from me at the restaurant or nod hello at the grocery store. These are my countrymen, neighbors, and friends. What the hell are we doing to each other?

Just beyond the medical triage area, he began to see even more evidence of the violence. A car, overturned and torched by the mob, was still smoldering. It fouled the air with more than just the fumes of burnt plastic and charred rubber – the stench was a harbinger of the republic’s future. It all sickened Zach.

He continued his stroll through the aftermath, past the looted store windows, litter, and a few other pedestrians who wouldn’t make eye contract. All the while Zach searched for what was troubling him so deeply.

Mexico was embroiled in open warfare, the conflict already boiling over into Texas on two occasions. Zach couldn’t conjure up any scenario where the fighting less than 200 miles to the south of where he stood wouldn’t continue to escalate. He could foresee the republic being pulled further into the quagmire with thousands and thousands of her sons and daughters being shipped home in body bags.

Zach slowed to watch an older couple ambling toward him along the sidewalk. Just a few feet away, they stopped and stood speechless as they stared at a store that advertised itself as Moe and Betty’s Dry Cleaners. The place had been badly damaged. The woman turned to her partner and began crying uncontrollably.

The ranger saw the man try and comfort her, his arm moving around her shoulder and pulling her close. All the while, a tear rolled down his cheek. “What are we going to do?” the lady managed to sob.

“We’ll be okay, Betty. I promise. Things will work out – they always do.”

Unable to take it any longer, Zach crossed the street and continued rambling through the aftermath. “This is my fault,” he whispered. “If I hadn’t let Ghost get away … if I’d just done my job.”

His thoughts returned to Putnam’s orders. “Stay close to Austin,” his boss had commanded.

“That type of thinking won’t resolve this conflict, Major,” The ranger pretended to argue with his boss. “That strategy will only lead to more heartbreak and death. That’s not the level of thinking required for Texas to win this thing. We need bold. We need ruthless. The republic must have strong, aggressive initiatives or the foes we face will destroy us. We need to battle evil with a greater evil, fight fire with hotter flames.”

As the ranger continued strolling through the destruction, it dawned on him that Texas was now in reactionary mode. Simmons and the other leadership of the republic had to sit and wait for the opposition’s next move. They were on the defense, and that wasn’t how to achieve victory.

He turned to stare back at the capitol building, its 300-foot outline dominating the skyline. A column of smoke partially obscured the grand dome. The gray and black cloud of ash provided an eerie, apocalyptic essence, that when combined with the sunlight, made it appear as if the structure itself was on fire. Zach knew it was an optical illusion but wondered for a moment if such a vision was a harbinger of the future.