The Western Front - Parts 1-3 (Western Front Series), Page 3

  In a typical year the property would flood just enough to foil the poachers. The water was still shallow enough to limit access to all but the most specialized of vessels; a vessel much like his, own. He leased the surrounding twenty thousand acres from the same timber company as a buffer. Beyond that was mostly state wildlife reserve.

  Clayton’s theory of life was one of irony: sometimes the only way to spit oneself out of the beast was to feign defeat and allow it to swallow you whole, so that one day you might have the leverage to go forth and never look back.

  ***

  After an uneventful ride back, they finally were within sight of home. Home was a one-room camp on timber piles. It was nestled in a grove of swamp oaks. Their gnarled branches help to conceal the brown, metal roof from any prying eyes overhead. Soon enough, winter would be here and he would be lying in his bed, listening to acorns clatter on the roof like errant golf balls.

  Clayton had to float in all of the building materials, which was a daunting task in its own right. The work was made harder by the remoteness of the site and his determination to keep its location a secret. It took nearly six months to build the camp. Three of Clayton’s closest friends helped him with most of the work. Actually, they were probably his only friends, if you were to ask him. Everybody that knew Clayton liked him, but if he wasn’t certain he could trust a man with his life, they were just acquaintances to him. The brothers Greene and Teddy Lawson he could trust, he was certain of that.

  The screened porch wrapped around the entirety of the camp. On the front, a wide staircase descended into the muddy waters below. Clayton estimated the depth to be about two feet at the last step. He killed the motor and drifted towards the camp. Moses, who had been napping, awoke and bounded to the bow of the boat.

  Clayton guided the vessel alongside the stairs with expert skill. The boat gently came to a stop as he looped the stern rope around one of the rail posts. He crawled to the bow and did the same, before climbing over the rails and onto solid footing.

  Moses whined as he struggled to squeeze between two posts. Clayton laughed at his friend’s expense and patted him on the side of his ever growing belly. With Moses finally free, they turned and started up the stairs.

  The smell of fresh cornbread wafted to Moses’ nose first. He suddenly pushed off with his back paws and bounded to the top. Clayton laughed as he caught a whiff.

  “Son, if you eat any more I’ll have to leave you here next time.”

  Moses turned and whined, before spinning back around and nudging the screened door with his wet nose.

  As Claire pushed the door open, the aroma from within was almost too much for Moses. He burst into the camp and paced impatiently in front of the wood-burning stove. Clayton greeted her with a weak smile and a kiss on the cheek. By the look on her face, she shared his worry.

  “No sign of them yet?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “They’ll turn up soon enough. Come on in; I have fresh cornbread and catfish.”

  “Mmm, you sure know how to end a bad day on a good note.” He dropped a filet in Moses’ open mouth and it disappeared with one gulp.

  Clayton grabbed three filets and two wedges cornbread, before sitting at the table across from Claire. Moses had already devoured another filet and far too much cornbread. Content, he plopped down in front of the door. Clayton smiled; Moses knew his post. Claire was reading her Bible by the blue hue of an LED lamp. She cleared her throat, looked up and said, “Listen to this:

  ‘But when they said, ‘Give us a king to lead us,’ this displeased Samuel; so he prayed to the Lord. And the Lord told him: ‘Listen to all that the people are saying to you; it is not you they have rejected, but they have rejected me as their king. As they have done from the day I brought them up out of Egypt until this day, forsaking me and serving other gods, so they are doing to you. Now listen to them; but warn them solemnly and let them know what the king who will reign over them will claim as his rights.’

  Samuel told all the words of the Lord to the people who were asking him for a king. He said, ‘This is what the king who will reign over you will claim as his rights: He will take your sons and make them serve with his chariots and horses, and they will run in front of his chariots. Some he will assign to be commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties, and others to plow his ground and reap his harvest, and still others to make weapons of war and equipment for his chariots. He will take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers. He will take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive groves and give them to his attendants. He will take a tenth of your grain and of your vintage and give it to his officials and attendants. Your male and female servants and the best of your cattle and donkeys he will take for his own use. He will take a tenth of your flocks, and you yourselves will become his slaves. When that day comes, you will cry out for relief from the king you have chosen, but the Lord will not answer you in that day. ‘But the people refused to listen to Samuel. ‘No!’ they said. ‘We want a king over us. Then we will be like all the other nations, with a king to lead us and to go out before us and fight our battles.’

  When Samuel heard all that the people said, he repeated it before the Lord. The Lord answered, ‘Listen to them and give them a king.’”

  Clayton finished the last of his cornbread and sat in silence for a few minutes, considering the verses.

  Claire watched him intensely. Finally, she broke the silence, “Do you think we asked for this?”

  “I know I didn’t.”

  “That’s not what I meant, you know that. We the people; society. We.”

  He rubbed his scraggly beard and thought for a while before finally answering. The playful demeanor from earlier was gone, “I’m not sure. If we didn’t ask for it, we sure beat around the bush with Him. If you believe in the Lord, you don’t go around acting like we have for the last hundred years or so without knowing you’re pissing Him off. If you don’t believe in Him, you still don’t do it without knowing you’re screwing up the balance of ought and ought not. So in that respect, I guess it was bound to happen. We just lucked up and got to live through it.”

  “Maybe we’re supposed to live through it. You and I. The family.”

  “Maybe so, babe. I’ve always heard it said that you are where you are, and when you are for a reason, even if it is a bit part. Hey, did I tell you that dinner was perfect?”

  “No, I don’t believe you did.”

  “Well it was. I love you.”

  Ch apter 3

  Jake

  West Mississippi

  Geram took his time with his coffee, while he searched for the proper way to start. He finally let out a deep sigh and began.

  “Tell me what you know about Texas and the border.”

  “Texas,” Jake thought for several moments, before continuing, “All we really get is what they want us to, since most of the internet’s been shut down. There’re some pretty wild rumors floating around, but you can’t verify anything.

  The news says the border is hot, but the local state guards are supporting the military and Border Patrol in hopes of containing it. The ranchers are in big trouble, but everywhere else is basically the same as here: the cities are full of rioters, the suburbs are getting dangerous and it’s starting to spill into rural areas. Martial law and curfews abound.”

  Geram reared back in his chair and balanced on its back two back legs. He closed his eyes and said, “It’s much worse bro, I’ve seen it myself. The border isn’t hot, it’s on fire. We’ve lost ground a hundred miles deep in most places. San Antonio and Corpus Christi are on the front lines of the war, fighting in the streets for their southern suburbs. Fort Bliss is an island, all but cut off from new supplies. Tucson is behind enemy lines and Phoenix is split in half. People are fleeing north like refugees to Houston, Dallas and Albuquerque.

  Many who’ve seen the worst aren’t even stopping there. They’re leaving the Southwest altogether. The folks down there are convinced
the Feds are willing to cede their states, like some sort of pacification. Besides, they say, we can’t afford or aren’t willing to push back hard enough for the cartels to fear us.”

  “War? Like a real war?”

  “Yep, like a real war except it’s on our own soil; but wait, it gets worse.” Geram’s eyes were wide open and he was leaning forward intensely. “We were told that six Humvees had been stolen by the cartels from a National Guard armory, and it was our mission to search and destroy. Their last known whereabouts was in Raymondville, that’s northwest of Brownsville, not far from the border.

  We headed south on 77 from Corpus in four MRAPs on a night run. There were twelve of us. It was eerie. The northbound shoulder of 77 was lined with cars that’d broken down or just run out of fuel.

  Some cars never made it to the shoulder. People just left them in the highway. Like I said, it was a real foreboding feeling. It looked like I-10 after Katrina, except much worse. The fact that our trucks were completely blacked out and we were viewing these scenes through night vision only added to the unease.

  Southbound 77 was wide open, so we made good time to Raymondville. Jake, I swear this is the truth, the sign at the city limits was spray-painted with the words, ‘Gringo, turn back or die,’ and had a pike on each side of it.”

  Geram paused for a moment as if to collect his thoughts, and continued. “There were heads on the pikes, human heads – Americans’ heads. We slowed down to a more reserved speed and each put a man up top. I was one of the four. You could say we had the best, or maybe the worst, view. I had an M2 Browning, and the rest of the guys had M240s.

  Mission briefing said to be alert for signs of disputes between the Zetas and the Gulf Cartel, but that was an understatement. It looked like a war zone: burned cars, buildings destroyed and piles of rubble – in America.

  But here’s where it didn’t make sense to us – we were ordered to stay on a secure frequency. Command said several squads had been ambushed after being contacted by English-speaking hostiles posing as locals or friendly state patrols. Under no circumstance were we to monitor outside communications. The idea was ridiculous to our squad leader, to say the least. His thought was we might as well have been blindfolded. It wasn’t in his squad’s best interest, so it wasn’t in his playbook, and we weren’t about to argue with that.

  Raymondville isn’t that big, so it didn’t take long to locate our targets. We stopped on top of the overpass on the east side of town. The view was commanding; I could see for miles. We aimed three of the guns west, straight down 186. The fourth gun was covering our rear.

  The place was like a ghost town, so it was easy to detect movement. The drive south had put us all on edge, and we were ready for a pound of flesh for what we’d seen. From my vantage point I could see churches, restaurants and all sorts of stores and shops. It was your typical small town. My chest was burning with anger. After about an hour, we saw them.

  It couldn’t’ve been any more perfect: we heard their gunfire before we could even see ‘em. After several moments, headlights appeared. Two trucks were screaming east on 186, straight towards us. They were approximately three miles out when we first had a good view. Behind them were four of our Humvees in hot pursuit, but losing ground.

  From that distance, we had a little over two minutes before they’d reach us. The two cartels, or what we thought were two cartels, were focused on each other and never saw us.

  We were ordered by our squad leader to hold our fire until the last moment. We would then send a wall of lead down at a sharp angle and let their momentum push them through it. Any surviving vehicles could be picked off at our leisure on the other side by the fourth gun.

  We scanned the radio frequencies and heard what sounded like an exchange between the two groups. It was fast-paced, heated Spanish peppered with expletives that even our translator couldn’t make sense of. As they approached, we set our sights as ordered. It seemed like we waited a lifetime.

  Finally, we were given the order to fire. I took a deep breath and engaged the butterfly trigger on the back of the weapon. The world erupted around me in gunfire and explosions, but it took me a second or two to realize that it wasn’t coming from me. I’d forgotten to remove the spent brass I had wedged behind the trigger as a safety! By then it was too late, the vehicles were careening under the bridge. The scene was one of bellowing smoke, dancing flames and screeching tires.

  One of the pickups veered off and slid sideways along the right shoulder of the highway. The truck continued down into the ditch, then up and out as it performed a magnificent, flaming barrel roll, aided by a drain pipe’s headwall. The second truck spun and almost managed to come to a complete stop in the middle of the highway, but was punted to the left shoulder as two of the Humvees slammed into its side.

  To our surprise the four Humvees accelerated out from underneath us two-wide, straddling the center of 186. Our rear guard opened fire on them, but we never could’ve imagined what happened next. A booming voice came across their radio.

  ‘Sheee-yit! We’re on the same team!’

  The booming voice was in that undeniable west Texas cowboy drawl. I immediately felt sick. There was no doubt in my mind that we had American blood on our hands.

  Cha pter 4

  William

  Washington, D.C.

  William Galleani smashed his first cigarette of the morning in the ashtray and rolled out of bed. He crawled along the wall to the blinds and gingerly peaked through. He had absolutely no desire to become a martyr for the cause. He crawled a several feet from the window, before standing and walking the remaining distance to the bathroom.

  He took a long look in the mirror to size himself up. He was an unlikely leader. William was short and diminutive, with the slightest bit of stubble beginning to show on his face and neck. His short black hair was all but hidden beneath the fleece skullcap as he pulled it snugly onto his head. The dark hair was such a stark contrast to his pale skin. It exaggerated his look of etherealness. His dark brown eyes were deeply set in his skull in a manner that made him look eternally exhausted. After brushing his teeth, he stumbled into the meager kitchen and started a pot of coffee.

  William had started SPARC (Socialists, Political Anarchists, Radicals and Communists) only five short years ago, and now he was a major player in the new political scene. He had the ear of politicians, labor leaders and even several foreign diplomats that represented various countries from banana republics, to former cold-war superpowers, to modern-day players.

  To be honest, which he seldom was, more of his organization’s financial support came from outside of the country than within. His group had exploded on the scene a mere six months ago when the unrest first started in D.C. While other groups’ leadership was apprehensive at first to openly challenge the police, SPARC would employ tactics to antagonize them into responding with force. William would then flood social media with videos of their agents being beaten while they innocently bleated like lambs.

  The videos were soon picked up by the media establishment and delivered into the living rooms of Americans, and across the world. These successful tactics led to the cannibalization of other organizations’ members. SPARC’s ranks quickly swelled with young radicals of all stripes that were demoralized by the endless marching and shouting they had grown nauseatingly accustomed to.

  SPARC had branches in major cities all across the country, and they were adding to their ranks with each new clash with police. William’s army of revolutionaries was potentially much larger, since copycat groups had popped up in the smaller cities where he did not yet have a presence. He had plans for them as well. If they did not assimilate under his wide umbrella of chaos when he came to town, he would use his powerful contacts to destroy them.

  He credited his charisma and powerful rhetoric as the source of his magnetism. In a world of revolutionaries and activists as varied as the colors in the spectrum, he had managed to bring them together and focus their energy towards
his goals.

  Apparently, his allies in congress were much more powerful than even he had anticipated. He had expected a climactic, highly publicized exchange with the Federal government, but they had largely ignored him. A handful of the more radical politicians praised him and were sometimes even spotted at his rallies. Or, perhaps America had truly become a paper tiger, shackled by political correctness. If that was so, it would make things much simpler for him. The local and state governments alone were no match for his agents of chaos. Their budgets were already broken, and their pensions were already drained. All they could do was make idle threats at press conferences while SPARC gleefully burned their cities to the ground. And if the city leaders or police decided to get too heavy handed, SPARC would make a house call and terrorize their families. William did not want complete submission, however. Violence begot more violence, and having an enemy worked to his benefit.

  The coffeemaker hissed and gurgled as it finished brewing. William grabbed a day-old styrofoam cup and filled it to the top. Today was an important day for him; today he would up the ante. The riots had been successful in that they had brought him respect and power, but they had also provided him a platform to leverage so that he could transition to phase two.

  There were two types of people in the streets, revolutionaries and opportunists. The opportunists used the riots as an excuse to loot. The revolutionaries of course looted as well, of course, but that was not their goal. A paradigm shift was their end-game, a fundamental transformation to whatever radical ideology that they held dear to their hearts. William needed a third type of person in the street, though. He needed the opposition; the sons and daughters of ‘liberty’.

  William simply called them the ‘opposition’. There were dozens of derogatory terms out there he could have used, but he preferred to anesthetize them. Therefore, if you have an opposition, a mere obstacle, you simply eradicate it. Besides, euphemisms worked better around his more sophisticated supporters, so it was a matter of etiquette to settle on the term.