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.