As he turned to leave, Hank replied, “Jake, wait.”

He paused and looked back.  “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, we’re sorry.  That’s all I can say.”

He sighed and said, “It’s alright, I’m sorry to.”

“If you ever – I mean, if things get better and you want to, you still have a home here.”

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I do.  We do.”

The other men nodded in agreement.

“Thanks, all of you; maybe one day.  By the way, have someone go by Frank’s house and check the closet at the end of the hall.  I left it open. I think there may be a few things in there that you’re going to need before this mess is over.”

Ch apter 13

Barrett

Brownsville, Texas

Barrett listened as the sound of the Black Hawk faded into the east.  He turned back towards the group.  In a way, he thought, it was a joint mission.  The twelve member squad was evenly selected from the guardsmen and the SEALs; six of each.  The SEALs had the combat experience that was desperately needed, and the guards knew the area better than any.  At this point, however, the six operators were probably considered former SEALs by their employer.

Officially, Barrett was the squad leader, but he had deferred many of the leadership roles to Holt, the code name adopted by the young SEAL Lieutenant.  Barrett had previously served as a SEAL, but never as a squad leader.  To him, the most experienced person should lead. There was no room for ego in the field.

They had been dropped on a small wooded island just north of the intersection of 77 and University Boulevard, in Brownsville.  Their mission was to proceed southwest through the UT at Brownsville campus and the Fort Brown Memorial Golf Course, across the Rio Grande and into Matamoros, Mexico.  Once in Mexico they would recon de Parque Olimpico; Olympic Park.

Texan predator drones had recently picked up some unusual activity at the park.  Semi-trucks had been observed hauling canopied loads into the area.  An extensive array of large canvas hangars had begun to appear several days ago.  The park more closely resembled the terminal areas of an airport, rather than a public green space.

The trucks’ cargo would remain covered until they pulled under one of the hangars.  Once unloaded, the trucks would leave empty.  Whatever was being delivered was intended to be hidden from prying eyes.

     They spread out among the thicket in a wedge formation and rechecked their gear.  Barrett listened for any sounds of movement nearby.  The once-bustling city was eerily silent.  Occasionally a vehicle could be heard speeding down the highway, most likely a member of the Z-G.  Even Mexican nationals were rarely seen north of the border.  The cartels had become increasingly violent, and it was not always targeted at the gringos.  As bad as it was south of the border, just north of it was far worse.  The northern incursion by the cartels had brought with it a scorched earth policy as they plundered the spoils of the American southwest.

After several minutes of uneventful silence, they began to slowly move west to the short causeway that led off the island.  They stayed off of the narrow asphalt pavement, preferring the concealment that the shadows afforded.  Their night-vision allowed them to move easily through the heavy blanket of darkness that enveloped the city – a symptom of a failed, or rather an abandoned, power grid.

As they left the wooded sanctuary of the island, the backdrop quickly changed to the deserted, low-class suburbs of south Brownsville.  The squad navigated the block and took their second left onto East 24th Street.

Barrett was horrified as he looked down the neighborhood street. Brownsville had obviously received the full burden of the violence.  Most of the battered homes’ windows and doors were smashed and broken.  Several houses had been reduced to smoldering ruins, and an occasional, mangled body lay in a yard or on the sidewalk.

East 24th Street would have been dangerous to traverse had it not been for the numerous vehicles haphazardly abandoned in both lanes.  The street had been selected as their route precisely due to the large number of discarded vehicles it contained.  It would be impossible for the squad to be overtaken by a fast-moving truck full of banditos along the street.

The bodies of his fellow countrymen particularly disturbed Barrett.  The men and women that died in this place died for one reason, they could not afford to flee.  As he passed the occasional body, he felt a strong sense of guilt.  Perhaps there was more that they should have done.  More evacuations, maybe forced evacuations?  He did not know the answer.  Ultimately, he knew that people were personally responsible for themselves and their families, but no one could have imagined the horrors of the tempest that had rolled across south Texas.  Like a dust-bowl sand storm, it had engulfed everything and everyone in its path.

The squad moved with deft precision through the shadows of the vacant ward.  Occasional bursts of gunfire and barking dogs interrupted the foreboding silence that surrounded them.

The sheer number of stray dogs was heartbreaking.  They were not wild dogs, but collared, starving, house pets that sensed the men’s advances through their territory.  Some would growl for a moment before shrinking away.  Others would simply rush blindly up to the men, seeking the affection they no longer received from the owners that had turned them loose before retreating northward.

***

The University of Texas at Brownsville was a stark contrast to the bleak neighborhoods to the north.  Despite the occasional indication of having been looted, and the obvious months-long lack of maintenance, the campus was still beautiful.  Amphitheaters, fountains and gardens, they all remained.  The Resaca, or oxbow lake, reflected the occasional star that shined through the cloudy, night sky.  The squad took full advantage of the broad shadows cast by the tall campus buildings as they continued south.

As they crossed the narrow isthmus on Ringgold Road that connected the north and south sections of the campus, they heard the shattering of glass somewhere ahead.  The squad disappeared into the tall grass and shrubs along the shoulders of the road.  They readied their rifles and scanned ahead, looking for the source of the sound.  From behind a distant building, they saw a bottle fly through the air and shatter on the pavement in front of them.

An engine rumbled to life.  Headlights flashed across the pavement.  A large, flatbed truck slowly appeared from around the building and turn north towards the squad.  The two amigos up front were scanning the road ahead, but the half-dozen soldados on the back were drinking and howling as they flung empty bottles at passing signs and windows.  Their rifles bounced and clattered on the bed of the truck beside them.  Unbeknownst to the men, a dozen rifles were trained at them from the darkness beyond.

Barrett followed the driver with his M4 carbine, watching him as he drove the aging diesel unwittingly past a momentarily merciful angel of death.  He wondered what the men’s purpose was, meandering through the city.  Perhaps they were freelance thugs, scavenging the remains of the city.  He considered the thought and decided it was highly unlikely.  They were most likely part of the narco alliance.

The flatbed sentries passed by without incident.  After several minutes, the squad resumed their trek down Ringgold Road.  They crossed University Boulevard, passed the student REK center and disappeared back down along the wooded shoreline of the oxbow lake, continually moving south.

Up ahead, they saw a ruined, smoldering building.  As they approached, Barrett was filled with rage.  He had heard that the National Guard Facility had fallen, but seeing the horrific results first hand was more than he could stand.