Part 13 (1/2)

As the jets performed a cross turn and headed back to the west, the soldiers in the ERC 90s could see tracer rounds from multiple locations on the island. The bullets flashed skyward in response to the attack.

The convoy proceeded east down the boulevard and stopped in the center of Port Isabel. Just ahead lay the long causeway that led to the guard's redoubt. They aimed their cannons eastward and began to sh.e.l.l the island.

South Padre once again flashed bright from the light of the explosions. Buildings were erased from the horizon. A dark cloud of smoke hung heavy in the distance. With the aid of binoculars, a few peculiar looking units on the island could be seen mobilizing in groups and returning fire. Soon the counterattack dissipated. The soldados cheered enthusiastically at their overwhelming victory.

After he was satisfied with the utter destruction of the island, the Capitn Primero ordered the convoy to cease fire. The attack was violent and swift, and had apparently caught most of the guardsmen by surprise. They had expected a fierce battle after finding the dead soldados on the roof of the apartment in Matamoros. They were all but certain that the gringos had discovered their ama.s.sing army. As it appeared, though, their fears were unfounded.

The island was silent and empty in the distance. The winds from the east began to blow the heavy, billowing smoke from the island over Laguna Madre, and into Port Isabel. The Capitn opened the top hatch of one of the front vehicles and peered through his binoculars for several uneventful minutes. Finally satisfied, he ducked back inside vehicle and gave the command to proceed over the causeway.

”Golden eagle! Golden eagle!”

Barrett and his fellow guardsmen rushed to their positions as their radios squawked to life. The code words from the SEAL scout team in Brownsville echoed in their heads. The army in Matamoros was on the move, and they were coming to the island.

They had been lying in wait for days. Barrett had expected the a.s.sault much sooner, but Providence had withheld it. The delay had afforded them the much-needed time to plead for reinforcements from Austin. They had begged for air support from Camp Mabry, but were told none was available. After a call to the governor's office and a second call to command control, a plan began to form. The more they discussed it, the more Barrett and Holt fell in love with it; and if they were lucky, it might even work.

Command control had recently been informed of a discovery in a National Guard Armory; crate upon crate of aging, Dragon missiles had been found languis.h.i.+ng in the back of a storage bunker. It had been decided that the entire stockpile of the M47 Dragons would be sent to Padre Island, along with six of the state's latest riot control vehicles.

At less than 6' in length and 4' tall, the Gladiator tactical vehicle was perfect for urban crowd control. The small, remotely-controlled vehicles could be outfitted with the SWARM weapon system. When utilizing less-than-lethal rounds, the Gladiator could effortlessly repel even the most determined rioter. They looked like miniature tanks as they rolled down the streets of Austin. Before long, the mere presence of the Gladiators tended to disperse a group of potential protestors.

But even when outfitted with a machine gun, the tiny land drones were still no match for the heavy armoring and large cannons of the ERC 90s. They would be eradicated on sight without question, but perhaps they could serve another, more sacrificial purpose. Perhaps they could lend the appearance of an occupied Padre Island.

Barrett and his teammates waited on the flat rooftops of the buildings along Queen Isabella Boulevard. They hid atop Lone Star National and First National Bank. They concealed themselves on the roofs of coffee shops and art galleries, of boutiques and antique stores and strip malls no more than four men to a roof. They would need rapid dominance shock and awe from all sides if they were to overcome the odds that were stacked against them.

The boulevard was divided by a wide, gra.s.sy median dotted with the occasional palm tree and ornamental shrub. Each side of the boulevard had two lanes, with an additional parking lane along the sidewalks. There was ample room for the convoy to tighten their formation as they neared the causeway.

If the enemy proceeded through Port Isabel in a long, staggered line of vehicles without pause, Barrett would wait until they were over Laguna Madre before attacking. This would not be optimal, but he believed they could use the causeway to trap the convoy. Their casualties would likely be high, because Port Isabel would get sh.e.l.led as well. He prayed they would stop at the bridge approach before proceeding. If they were cl.u.s.tered tightly in the center of town and not expecting an a.s.sault from behind, he knew he could decimate his opponent.

It had been nearly ten minutes since the warning from the SEAL team. They had reported over fifty of the ERC 90s traveling at approximately 50 mph. Barrett stood atop the old Point Isabel Lighthouse, the tallest structure for miles. He had a commanding view of the surrounding area as he leaned against the ancient railing atop the structure. He waited impatiently; the soldados would be upon them at any moment.

The sudden sound of jet engines startled Barrett. He dashed back into the lantern room and radioed for everyone to find cover on the exposed roofs as best they could. He grabbed the remote that controlled all six of the Gladiators and began to move them around the island.

Three, low-flying F-5s streaked over Port Isabel and dropped the entirety of their payloads on South Padre. Barrett stared at the explosions and held his breath.

With the joystick he aimed the tiny tanks skyward and saw five sets of tracer rounds pierce the night sky. Amazingly he had only lost one Gladiator. He watched as the jets streaked back overhead, a.s.sumingly returning to base. As he spun to watch them, he saw the endless line ERC 90s quietly approaching. He radioed again, warning of their approach.

They held their fire as the convoy rolled down the boulevard and stopped at the approach of the causeway. The vehicles aimed their cannons eastward and began to sh.e.l.l the island mercilessly. Barrett fumbled with the bulky remote and returned fire. The Gladiators' rounds were useless at point-blank range, much less from across the lagoon. Their purpose was to merely ensure their enemy was sufficiently confident in his victory.

One by one, the Gladiators were destroyed, their tracer fire to be seen no more. Barrett radioed the men to ready their Dragons and wait for his order. The scenario could not have been more perfect, he thought. While the front vehicles were bombarding the island, the rear vehicles crowded forward to see the action, their lack of discipline now on display. Several of the crews had even left their vehicles unattended while they scampered forward to see the destruction of the gringos that had hara.s.sed them for months.

As the sh.e.l.ling stopped, a hatch opened on one of the front ERC 90s. A man emerged and stared through his binoculars at the island for several minutes. Satisfied with the destruction, he disappeared back into the vehicle.

This was the moment.

Barrett stroked the b.u.t.ton on the radio for a second or two, before pressing it and whispering, ”Our turn.”

In the first moments of the volley, ten Dragon missiles were launched from the rooftops nearby. Before those missiles had even met their targets, another fifteen were being launched. By the time the soldiers in the street could process the unexpected sights and sounds, thirty-five Dragons had been launched from less than two-hundred yards away. The missiles screamed towards the unorganized cl.u.s.ter of ERC 90s.

The shock and terror below was apparent by the inaction of the vehicles that were not hit. The ones that did react tried to retreat, but the wreckage around them foiled their attempts. Within ten seconds, the two-man teams had attached the tubular firing system to a second missile, a drill they had performed hundreds of times in the past several days. Their second volley annihilated the remaining vehicles.

Within another twenty seconds, the slower, APCs had reached the point where the gra.s.sy median split Highway 100 into the expansive Queen Isabella Boulevard. They were now within line of sight of the guardsmen, a mere four-hundred yards away. The APCs had not even concerned themselves with the sounds of the violent, rooftop ambush. They had a.s.sumed it was merely part of the island bombardment. Besides, they had received no calls of distress. A single, concerted barrage of Dragons from the rooftops ended the armored procession with an enormous ball of flame.

Heavy, white smoke hung thick in the air of Port Isabel, completely shrouding the base of the lighthouse. Barrett stood atop the tower in awe of the complete and total victory. He keyed the radio again and barked, ”Well done, Dragon Slayers. Gryphon, proceed with search and destroy.”

Strykers, Humvees and AAVs streamed out from underneath the beach houses on Long Island to the south. They crossed the swing bridge into town and dispersed amongst the side streets near the boulevard with their large spotlights illuminating the night. The men on the rooftops had switched back to their rifles after readying the Dragons for a fourth volley, just in case. They searched the alleys and streets below them for any remaining soldados.

Barrett heard several shots ring out from the neighboring streets. Not long thereafter, reports of 'all clear' began echoing from his radio.

”Alright,” he replied, ”let's move out. They're waiting for us in Port Mansfield. It's a good two-hour drive and I can't wait to get out of here.”

He smiled as he made his way down from his perch. Tomorrow they could determine their strategy for the days to come, but for now they would celebrate.

Chapter 21.

Reese Houston, Texas His tension began to subside as the Learjet lifted off the runway. Reese had not slept any the night before in the sprawling cemetery. He had forced himself to stay awake as he sat in the back of the cabin on the wide bench seat. With the jet in the air, he reclined the bench until it was flat. He stretched out and finally closed his eyes. With no one but the pilot and himself onboard, Reese felt safe enough to rest during the three-hour flight.

He drifted in and out of sleep during the turbulent flight, subconsciously reaching for his MP5 with every jerk and bounce of the jet. He dreamed of wars in his past and in his future. He recalled the harsh, winter nights spent in the rugged, Afghan terrain over ten years ago.

Along with his Special Forces brothers, he was one of the first Americans to step foot on Afghan soil in 2001. They had come to be known as the horse soldiers. The men he fought alongside were more than elite warriors, they were soldier-emissaries sent into a region that had repelled the Brits in the 19th century and the Soviets in the 20th. The American Empire would be just another ruined superpower unless they could find another way.

In the early days of the war, they fought alongside the northern tribesmen like kinsmen. They were an odd combination of modern super-soldiers and ancient guerillas. They routed forces that outnumbered them by as much as forty to one.

The irony of their mission was not lost on him. The first battles in the 21st century's War on Terror would be fought on the backs of Afghan ponies. He recalled the frigid nights that they repelled from Chinooks that were hovering in alt.i.tudes higher than should have even been mechanically and mathematically possible, into the harsh lands below. He thought of the cheering villagers in the mountaintop settlements where they stopped for rest and to seek support for the struggle against an oppressive and intolerant regime.

He smiled as he recollected the men driving forward through some of the most rugged and desolate, almost otherworldly, landscapes on mere horses, with the world's most sophisticated night-vision, weaponry and communications equipment.

He remembered one battle in particular where they brazenly charged a group of Taliban soldiers, firing over the heads of their horses. Suddenly, he was flung forward as his pony was shot out from underneath him. Reese landed hard on the unforgiving ground while the other soldiers galloped past. Without warning, he felt a hard tug and was slung upwards through the air and onto the back of a ma.s.sive Afghani's battle horse. The man turned and flashed a toothless smile before continuing his fearless a.s.sault.

He remembered lying on his back and staring at the stars, feeling a strong sense of connection with the kindred spirits of times long past. He had often dreamt on those nights of riding alongside Mosby's Men and the Rough Riders. His brothers-in-arms often remarked that they felt as if they had been sent into the past to change the present.

The war had dragged on through the years because of spineless politicians seven-thousand miles away, but he and his men never forgot. They fought and died changing a nation. Regardless of where America stood now in the eyes of the Afghani people, they had left as heroes in the eyes of the villagers in the north. They had prayed for a champion and had been sent an entire cavalry of them from half a world away.

The sudden descent awoke Reese from his sleep. He groggily peered out the window beside him and watched as the golf course below grew in size, until it seemed as if they would land on the eighth hole. The jet buzzed the treetops and managed a fairly gentle landing on the cracked, asphalt runway. The unexpected scenery disoriented Reese. He grabbed his pack, cautiously walked up the narrow aisle to the c.o.c.kpit and knocked on the door.

”Yes sir?”

”Where are we?”

”West Houston Airport, sir.”

”Why didn't we fly in to Bush?”