Part 16 (2/2)

As Reese and the rangers arrived at the box truck, he noted the logo on the side, Mountain Spring Water Company, Brownsville, TX. The officers were just pulling two men out of the cab. They were both about thirty years old and lanky. Reese noted that all of the color had drained from their faces.

”What's going on here?” he asked.

One of the officers responded, ”They tried to avoid our checkpoint but we got 'em. They said they were making a delivery to downtown. When we asked to take a look in the back, they refused. That's as far as we got before you arrived.”

Reese stared at the men for several seconds. He could tell his gaze made them uncomfortable.

”Open it up.”

An officer walked to the back of the truck and said, ”Somebody grab some bolt cutters, it's padlocked.”

A second officer retrieved some from cutters his trunk and rushed over. As they cut the lock and began to open the door, a hail of gunfire suddenly erupted from within, hitting both officers in the chest and head. The pair stumbled backwards and fell to the ground.

The remaining team members jumped with surprise, caught completely off guard by the ambush. Several men drew their service pistols and began to fire blindly into the side of the truck. The two rangers shouldered their carbines and slowly began to make their way to the open back door.

A second volley of gunfire exploded from within, this time in the direction of the pistol fire from the side. The rifle rounds ripped through the thin sh.e.l.l of the truck and pierced the air all around the team. The lanky driver was struck in the neck and sunk to his knees. He brought his hand up to his neck to try and stop the blood from gus.h.i.+ng from his ruptured, carotid artery. His face was as white as the edge stripe on the pavement beside him. He began to go into shock.

A guardsman groaned in pain as he was struck in the shoulder. He dropped to one knee as his uniform began to blossom red. A deputy stumbled backwards and fell as a round hit him squarely in the chest. Reese grabbed the deputy, rolled him onto his side and began to hold pressure on the wound. In the confusion of the exchange, a voice could be heard shouting, ”Hold your fire!” as a second voice called out repeatedly, ”Medic!”

The rangers slowly and methodically began to slice the interior of the box truck, searching for the attackers. They tried not to focus on the large device that rested in the center of the freight area. They had to locate and eliminate the threat first. In spite of their focus, they could feel the hair on their arms and neck standing up.

The rangers finally spotted two men in the far corner of the interior, indiscriminately firing through the walls of the truck in the direction of the wounded officers. After two well-aimed taps from each rifle, the men dropped their guns and slumped in the back of the truck.

Reese called a guardsman over to relieve him, before he rushed to the rangers' side. They stood motionless and speechless as they stared at the apparent, nuclear device. Reese paused for a moment, and then rushed to the two men inside of the truck. The men looked to be Hispanic. One of them was dead already, and the second was gravely wounded. Reese tossed the man's rifle to the side, leaned in closely and growled in Spanish, ”Who do you work for?”

The man lay motionless and said nothing.

Reese turned to yell for help carrying the man outside, but heard a faint whisper coming from the dying man.

Reese turned back to face him as the man repeated the phrase. His heart sunk as he recognized the language. The clean shaven man was not Hispanic at all. The dialect was Khaliji, or Gulf Arabic, as it was commonly called in the West. Khaliji differed from other Arabic dialects in that it borrowed heavily from the Persians. Reese knew without a doubt that the man was from somewhere along the sh.o.r.es of the Persian Gulf, most likely from Saudi Arabia, one of the gulf kingdoms or the southern coast of Iran.

The man defiantly repeated the phrase a final time in his native tongue, as if it was a dying prayer meant for his G.o.d rather than for Reese. Finally, his eyes rolled back in his head. The words ran through Reese's head in a frantic loop. His head throbbed as the words echoed through it.

Reese numbly stepped out of the truck and onto the pavement. He was met by a guardsman that said, ”Sir, we've called the bomb squad; they'll be here in a few minutes. We did it! We saved the city!”

The words were distant and hollow, as if they were coming from the far end of a tunnel. Reese turned to the rangers and tried to speak, but could only manage a whisper.

”I need you to get all members of the evacuation team out of the city immediately, and get me the governor on the phone, now.”

The two men eyed him curiously for a moment, before turning to execute his orders.

Reese knelt on the ground and stared skyward as he simply whispered, ”G.o.d, help us.” The words of the dead man played on an endless loop in his head: Praise be to Allah, for the righteous fury of your left hand may be denied, but the wrath of your right shall not. Before this hour has pa.s.sed, the world shall witness your glory.

Reese looked down at his watch; he had twenty minutes until four o'clock.

Chapter 26.

Clayton Was.h.i.+ngton County, Alabama They turned east onto the narrow, paved road from Highway 43. The pavement was crumbling and hopelessly potholed. The Sheriff navigated the road slowly to avoid damaging his SUV. The shoulders were almost nonexistent. The gra.s.sy swales on either side had long since been reclaimed by the dense forest. The woods that the road dissected struggled to once again become whole. The branches from both sides now intertwined with each other, creating a thick canopy above. The overhanging branches made the moonless night even darker and more imposing.

The sheriff's Suburban was followed by two full-sized, four-wheel drive pickups. Sheriff Greene had brought his three deputies and six volunteers with him on the raid. The man that Clayton had managed to capture had told them that there would be eight men at the camp, but they were not certain if he had been truthful. They could not even be certain that they were not being led into a trap.

The men were all solemn faced and anxious. Some of the men had lost loved ones because of the group of interlopers that had invaded their once-sleepy town. One of the men had nearly lost his own life to them, but had successfully escaped. The face of the intruder that had stood over him was still seared into his mind.

Sheriff Greene had selected the men precisely because of what had happened to them or their families. He needed men that had a reason to stand and fight, if it came to that. He had also sternly warned the men that there would be no revenge killings. They were deputized lawmen, not vigilantes. None of his men were to fire unless it was in self-defense. They were here to make arrests, not to satisfy vendettas. The men had all swore an oath to the sheriff's terms. As far as Greene was concerned, this was not the Wild West, not yet.

As they rounded the final curve of the paved section of the road, Sheriff Greene glanced over at the tiny graveyard that was nestled in a small grove to his left. Spanish moss hung from every limb of the oak and maples that grew in the cemetery. The headstones were crudely constructed and covered in green moss. The markers mostly represented three or four families that had lived in the area during the nineteenth century. The headstones bore deaths ranging from the 1830s to the 1870s. The sheriff wondered what the men and women that chose to live in such an isolated place so long ago were like. He wondered if the people who lived here now had the strength and courage to survive if a world like that was realized once again.

The shallow-draft boat silently trolled up the narrow slough nearly three meandering miles from its mouth at the river. The slough had widened somewhat, but was still very constrictive. The mouth of the slough was almost invisible along the river, unless one knew exactly where to look. Clayton reasoned that of all the camps on the river that he knew of, and he knew of them all, this was one of the most secluded. He had always admired the camp's strategic location. It was accessible by land in all but the worst of floods, the river never dropped low enough to restrict access of a boat like his and almost no one knew it existed.

He could tell they were getting close as he began to notice various landmarks. Clayton always made a point to remember unique features of the swamp around him such as peculiar looking trees or sharp bends. He was not nearly as familiar with this area as his own enclave, but he was more familiar with it than most.

He smiled as he looked at his boys sitting in front of him on the dry well. Their presence made him feel complete. Not knowing if they were safe during the past few months had left him with an emptiness that he had not been able to fill. They each were wearing night-vision goggles and had their rifles resting beside them. One would occasionally nudge the other as they pointed to some distant item of interest around them. Despite their many differences, Clayton was amazed by how much their mannerisms were the same. Their posture, gestures and facial expressions were nearly identical.

After they rounded the final bend of their journey, Clayton silently eased the boat to the water's edge and dropped anchor. There was one final meander between them and the camp, but the water on each side of the sharp turn was merely separated by a narrow finger of land less than fifteen feet wide. From their location, they could see through the tiny, wooded peninsula and to the camp nearly three hundred yards beyond.

As Clayton dropped anchor, the brothers unfastened the dark-green kayak that had taken up nearly all of the room on the boat. They had almost lost it earlier on the open waters of the main river as a gust of wind had gotten underneath it and threatened to blow it skyward like a plastic missile. Jake had dove on top of the kayak to save it as Geram laughed and exclaimed that he was lucky Kate had been fattening him up, otherwise both he and the small boat might have blown away. Jake simply grinned and slapped his flat stomach. He knew that one of the few standards by which he could be called fat was by a Navy SEAL's standards.

The brothers eased the squat, twelve foot kayak into the dark water beside the boat and Geram gingerly transitioned into it. The sit-on-top kayak would not track in a straight line for long or turn as easily as a traditional kayak, but it would be very stable and Geram would be able to transition in and out of the boat with ease.

Geram silently paddled up the narrow slough to the rear of the camp. Jake's AR pistol was balanced across his lap. The milk crate that was strapped to the back of the kayak behind him was filled with extra magazines and a first aid kit. With a steady rhythm, the double-sided paddle cut through the water without a sound. As he urged the boat forward, he surveyed the camp and its surroundings. The unexpected size of the structure impressed him.

The camp was built nearly thirty years ago for a hunting club that encompa.s.sed several thousand acres. The club mostly consisted of doctors, lawyers and old money. No expense had been spared in its construction. It was on large timber piles that rose higher than normal from the muddy ground below. Geram estimated the structure itself to be close to three-thousand square feet, not including the large wrap-around deck.

The camp's interior walls were beautiful, cedar planks. Every couple of years the club would have them sanded so the rich smell, unique to the tree, would fill the rooms once again. The floors and exterior railings were crafted from local cypress. The rusty tin roof was still free of leaks and complemented the atmosphere of the camp. Two wide staircases, one in the front and one in the rear, led from the high deck to the ground below.

Geram could see several four-wheel drive trucks parked underneath the structure, and a pair of boats, too large to easily navigate the narrow slough, anch.o.r.ed close by. As he got closer, he could hear loud voices coming from inside the candle-lit camp. He paddled around to the boats, flicked open his folding knife and cut the fuel line leading to each of the outboard motors.

Suddenly the camp's back door flung open and two men burst into the night. Geram crouched low behind the nearest boat and peered up at the men. They roared with laughter as one slapped the other on his back. The men turned up their bottles, before lighting their cigarettes and leaning against the railing. Geram cursed under his breath; the drunk and raucous group would never give up without a fight, even if they were hopelessly surrounded. On the other hand, at least their reactions and aim would be compromised.

Greene continued up the overgrown trail to the camp. Slowly, they were closing in on their destination. The aging sheriff followed the path for another several hundred yards before pulling off to one side. He racked the slide of his shotgun, chambering a load of buckshot.

While the other men carried varying, military-styled rifles and the newest semiautomatic pistols, the old man preferred the feel of his well-worn shotgun and 1911 pistol. They were undoubtedly not the best choices for the situation at hand, but he could find his way around them like none other. He carried what he was comfortable with, regardless of what anyone else thought. The canvas hunting vest he wore contained some additional loads of buckshot as well as a few slugs, just in case.

The group of officers, some newly deputized and others seasoned from years on the job, quietly covered the remaining several hundred yards to the camp on foot. As it came into sight, the men took up positions that surrounded the front and sides of the camp. As the last man got into position, the sheriff radioed Clayton.

”We're in position Clay, how about you?”

”Ready and waiting.”

The sheriff raised his megaphone and addressed the men inside.

”Attention, this is the sheriff's department. You are surrounded. You're wanted for questioning. Please exit the camp through the front door with your hands in the air.”

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