Fortress Doctrine (Maelstrom Rising Book 5) Read online

  “It’s going to be a tight fit.” LaForce was walking back from the lead vehicle. “Twenty-seven of us in five vehicles… we’ll look a lot like the Soldados did, at least from a distance. Gonna be a lot of us riding in the beds.”

  “Well, we weren’t planning on going right into the middle of town.” Hank folded his hands on his rifle’s buttstock as it hung on its sling in front of him, and surveyed the scene. “It just has to work from a distance.”

  West jerked a thumb at the kneeling men. “What are we doing with them?”

  Hank glanced over at them. “Take their boots or shoes and start them walking back the way they came.” When Spencer raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “We can’t handle prisoners. And we don’t want them covering a lot of territory quickly, do we?”

  Faris had been doing something inside the cab of one of the nearest trucks. He came out and straightened up, frowning. “Why not just shoot ‘em? They’d do the same to us.”

  Hank shook his head. “It’d be easier, and it would eliminate any questions, once someone came on the dead Vengadores back there. But I won’t have the murder of unarmed men on my conscience, no matter how much they deserve it. And, like it or not, I’m not going to have it on your conscience, either, Teagan. It’s the hard call, and yes, it puts us at greater risk, but I’m making it. Make ‘em walk.

  “Then get everybody down here and loaded up. We need to make tracks before another convoy comes along.”

  Chapter 19

  “What’s the holdup now?” Hank looked up as they lurched to a stop, the canyon walls above already casting evening shadows over the small convoy. They’d stopped that way far too often over the last six hours, and the grumbling and cursing from the back, as Vega, Fernandez, Taylor, and Coffee were thrown around, reflected that.

  “Who the fuck let Faris drive?”

  “Shut up.” Hank’s own patience was at a low ebb. They hadn’t gotten nearly as far over the last six hours as he’d hoped they would, and at the same time, he knew that much of that was his own fault. He’d wanted to avoid encountering another Soldado or Vengador convoy, even at a distance, but that had meant going into the badlands along the west bank of the Rio Grande.

  “It’s another box canyon,” LaForce reported from up front.

  “Of course it fucking is.” Faris’ newfound discipline and “gung-ho” spirit was wearing thin out there in the desert. “We’ve gone a whole, what? Three miles?”

  “Calm down. This was never going to be a picnic.” But all the same, Hank knew that they had to do something differently. “Gray Man and Six-Four-Five, this is Actual. Meet at my vehicle.”

  He kicked the door open and got out, stifling a groan as he straightened up. The cramped quarters inside the cab, coupled with the beating they’d all taken from the terrain, were reminding him that he wasn’t exactly what most people would consider a young man anymore.

  The two other senior Triarii joined him. They were all tired and dusty, their eyes getting bloodshot. It had been a long haul already.

  Hank spread the map out on the hood. “We’ve been trying to go this way, over this ridge. It looked like we had a possible route along here, but so far, there’s been nothing. No roads, no trails, not even any tracks, and the terrain’s been a stone bitch.” He traced their planned route with the tip of his pocketknife. “I know we wanted to avoid the Cañon de Ángulo because of the fields and farms along the bank, but if we don’t find another route, we’re going to get stuck or break an axle back here.”

  Spencer shrugged. “I’m not married to this route. I seem to recall saying it was a bad idea in the first place.”

  Hank grimaced. Spencer had, in fact, objected to the route across the badlands. Fortunately, they hadn’t had a catastrophic failure yet, but they were only one pit or badly placed rock away from being afoot again.

  He had no doubt that they could “tactically acquire” new vehicles in Manuel Benavides, especially if the bad guys were using it as a staging area. But he’d maintained for years, first as a squad leader, then as a platoon sergeant, finally as a Triarii section leader, that the more potential points of failure you add to a plan, the more likely failure becomes. And going into the staging area for an invasion of Texas was going to be more than just “a” potential point of failure.

  “Okay, the Cañon it is, then.” He peered down at the map. “Question is, how do we get there from here, without breaking axles or otherwise destroying trucks?”

  West pulled out his own knife. “I think we need to turn around, backtrack down this canyon to that low ground we passed an hour ago, and turn southeast along this wash. That should take us to the Cañon this side of where it’s so steep-sided that we’d never get out if something went wrong.”

  Hank studied the map, taking note of the contours, trying to match them with what they’d already seen. Finally, he nodded.

  Don’t be too grudging because you picked the wrong route. How many times have you lectured your Marines and Triarii about the necessity for humility?

  He looked up at the sky, then checked his watch. “It should be dark in about two hours. Let’s halt here, set security, and rest for three. Let the vehicles cool off, too. Then we’ll get going an hour after full dark. Blacked out, on NVGs. It’ll be harder, but I don’t want people watching our headlights when we hit the canyon and go past those farms.”

  “Roger that.” West stretched. “I could use the shut-eye. It’s been a long few days.”

  “Just make sure the boys get some sleep first.” Hank eyed him with a raised, challenging eyebrow.

  West actually looked like he was going to object for a moment. He didn’t say so much, but the look that crossed his face smacked faintly of resentment. After all, he was as senior as Hank was, and he wasn’t technically a part of Tango India Six-Four. He was a straphanger. Hank’s eyes narrowed.

  I might have made a poor call on the route, but I’ll still crush your soul if you try to set yourself above the rest of the section. You’re a part of this op, which means you’re right here with the rest of us.

  But West composed himself and nodded, a little shamefacedly. “Of course.” He took a deep breath and gusted it out past his nose. “Just looking forward to some rest, is all.”

  “Well, once we get the rotation figured out, make the most of it. We’re just getting started.”

  ***

  The drive was almost worse in the dark. It was harder than ever to see the terrain ahead, and they had to keep their pace to a crawl to avoid getting stuck or high-centered. By the time they reached the Cañon de Ángulo, it was already well past 0200.

  There were a few lights out in the landscape around them, but the farmers who kept their fields alongside the canyon wouldn’t be up for a couple more hours yet. The blacked-out vehicles that turned onto the road along the northern bank of the wash shouldn’t be marked.

  Still, the Triarii were exhausted. The hour and a half or so of rest hadn’t counted for much, not after crossing the river on foot, setting in an ambush, going through a firefight, and then driving cross-country through some of the roughest desert most of them had ever seen for hours. They had to stop.

  Hank watched the peaks to their right and left, keeping an eye on the distant faint glow coming from Manuel Benavides. The last thing they needed was to over-penetrate and get too close to the town before they had a chance to assess the situation.

  Finally, he keyed his radio again. “One-One, Actual. Find us a canyon where we can go to ground. We’ll rest for a little bit, and then get eyes on the target.”

  ***

  The sun was already up. A part of Hank’s mind was itching at the fact as he continued climbing the ridgeline just to the east of Manuel Benavides, right behind Juan Rodriguez. He’d asked for two volunteers to head up to the OP, to get eyes on the town and hopefully get enough of a view of the enemy staging area to start to formulate their plan of attack. Somewhat surprisingly, he’d gotten the Rodriguez brothers. Juan had taken
point, while Marco lugged one of Second Squad’s Mk 48s in the rear.

  It wasn’t the strictest recon team according to infantry doctrine, but he’d wanted a small footprint, especially once it had become evident that the only way they’d get into position before dawn was if they abandoned any rest plan at all. And he was experienced enough to know that pushing too hard, especially deep behind enemy lines, was a recipe for disaster.

  As he struggled up the slope, his boots threatening to slip in the loose scree with every other step, he contemplated the fact that he might have simply set in for the day, then gotten the OP set in at night. Which, if they’d been entirely on their own timeline, might well have been an option. But the fact that Lajitas was still in cartel hands, and the flow of gun trucks, killers, and oil tankers wasn’t slowing down, pressed at him.

  The Triarii, and the people they were trying to protect, were already in a bad position. Had been for months. As if the steadily increasing unrest and crime of the last few years—often exacerbated by governmental negligence, if not outright encouragement in some places—weren’t enough, the attacks on the nation’s infrastructure had thrown everything even farther askew. Some were wondering if there was even any way to rebuild the country after everything that had happened.

  Hank didn’t know. That wasn’t his bailiwick. He was an infantry section leader, a grunt commander. So, he’d do what he could with what he had.

  But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the pressure. The wolves were circling, like the United States was a wounded bull, and now the hemorrhage had gotten bad enough that they were taking bites out of the flanks. If they weren’t kicked in the teeth soon, it would only get worse. He knew that on an instinctive level, and it drove him forward, despite the fatigue that put grit in his eyes and turned his legs and feet to lead.

  Juan had slowed, staying low as he neared the crest, looking for a shoulder or a saddle, some place they could get eyes over the top without skylining themselves. The Rodriguez brothers had gone into different services—Marco had been regular Army, and Juan had been Border Patrol. Juan had, in fact, been with BORTAC, the Border Patrol Tactical Unit. He’d obviously picked up some decent fieldcraft there.

  Juan paused, scanning the slope above them, then his eyes locked on a slight depression off to their left. Nodding, he started toward it. Hank followed like a tired bear.

  They worked their way through the depression, which turned into a shallow saddle just to one side of the top of the hill. They crawled the last few yards to where the slope fell away below them, and Manuel Benavides spread out on the flats alongside the wash.

  The three of them had left their packs with the trucks, but Hank had brought a spotting scope along with his water bladder. He swung it off his back as he settled in next to Juan, as Marco took up rear security with the Mk 48. Resting the spotting scope on the bladder’s little day pack, he put his eye to the eyepiece and adjusted the focus.

  Manuel Benavides sprawled across about three square miles. Only about half the streets were paved, and the houses got more spread out the farther they got from the dry riverbed along the northeast side of town. Most of the buildings were stone or adobe, and only the church appeared to be more than one story tall.

  He scanned carefully, keeping the spotting scope as steady as he could. His frown deepened as he covered more of the town.

  Finally, he pulled back from the glass and handed it off to the junior Rodriguez brother. “Take a look, Juan.”

  Rodriguez scanned the town just as carefully, then lifted his head, frowning.

  “Are you seeing something I’m not?” Hank pointed down toward the town. “Because I ain’t seeing anything that looks like a staging area or laager site.”

  Rodriguez shook his head. “I’m not, either.” He looked through the eyepiece again. “I see a couple of vehicles that look a little out of place, but no security, no big gatherings, nothing.”

  “Which vehicles?” Hank took the spotting scope back and started looking.

  “Find the church, then come down about three houses.”

  Hank followed the directions with the spotting scope, and then he thought he’d found what Rodriguez was looking at. “Those two black G-Wagons parked outside the big, fancy farmhouse?”

  “That’s them.”

  Hank studied the vehicles, then widened his attention to the rest of the property. It was a big house, with a ring of shrubs around a large, fairly well-kept yard. It looked somewhat out of place, though the longer he looked, the less he saw that suggested it was a cartel house. G-Wagons might be expensive, and might appeal to a lot of narcos, but there was no other visible security, no traffic. It certainly might be a cartel house, but it was by no means certain.

  “Incoming.” Hank looked up to see Rodriguez pointing off to the north, along the Chihuahua 200 highway, which turned into Manuel Benavides’ main drag. Hank looked, saw sunlight glint off auto glass, and brought the spotting scope to bear.

  It was another convoy, all right. More of the Vengadores, from the paint jobs on the lead trucks. He wondered just how many of those vehicles the narco paramilitaries had. They’d destroyed a few already, and they had to be somewhat of a finite resource. It took time to tun a regular pickup truck into a paramilitary gun truck. And he’d never seen any intel estimates that put the Vengadores at more than a couple thousand members.

  Three more tankers followed, and a fourth gun truck took up the rear. They rolled under a big road sign that crossed the highway, then turned off and trundled into the parking lot of what looked like a restaurant just on the other side of the riverbed.

  Hank didn’t say anything further, but just watched them. They were a good two miles off, so he couldn’t see a lot of detail, even with the spotting scope at its highest magnification, but it looked like they were getting out and moving around, as if it was just a pit stop.

  They lingered for about an hour, as the Triarii watched and waited. That whole time, they showed no sign that they were getting ready to go into town.

  Finally, one of them appeared to round the rest up, they got in the vehicles, and headed back north. Hank watched them until they turned off the highway and headed into the desert, heading northeast. Toward Lajitas.

  He took his eye away from the spotting scope and blinked a few times. “I don’t think they’re using this town as a staging area. I think it’s a control feature.”

  “Like, ‘Go here, wait for a call, and you’ll get further instructions there?’” Rodriguez didn’t have the same optics, but he was watching through his rifle’s scope.

  “Something like that. I didn’t see them meet anyone. And there’s nothing else here that looks like the kind of major operation that would be needed if they were using it as a staging point. No fueling points, no command and control…” Hank rubbed his chin. “This ain’t a target. It’s just a land nav checkpoint.” He stifled a curse. They’d spent a day on this already; they couldn’t move on until the sun went down. “We may as well stay in place for a while. See what else is moving. But as soon as it starts to get dark, we’re heading back down and hitting the road. It’s a long way to Camargo.”

  Chapter 20

  Hank blinked at the first crack, wondering whether he’d really heard it or if he’d nodded off and imagined it. They’d been on the road for hours, the miles of Chihuahua desert drifting by, the hills coming and going as the sun had climbed toward the summit of the sky. The clouds had mostly cleared out; the sky was bright and clear.

  They were passing through the tiny town of Potrero de Llano, which wasn’t much bigger than Manuel Benavides had been. It was a dusty, stark collection of one-story adobes and cinder-block houses, most of which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Middle East. They were nearing the outskirts, with more of the desert stretching out in a blanket of sagebrush and creosote bushes beyond the next few buildings and the scrub desert trees that grew around them.

  Then a stuttering series of cracks put any doubt out of his
mind. He had heard shooting. And from the sound of it, the fire was aimed at them.

  “Contact left!” LaForce’s vehicle turned hard left, toward the low, red-and-gray building that crouched inside a battered, rickety wire fence next to the road, with a large yard studded with trees, piles of gravel and other construction materials, and derelict vehicles, and Coffee almost rammed the corner of the house as he bounced up off the road. But he’d put the walls between the vehicle—and the men in the back—and the incoming fire.

  The rest of the convoy wasn’t so well-placed, though. “Dismount!” Hank was yelling the word into his radio as he suited actions to words and spilled out of his door, scanning the right side as he went to make sure they weren’t right in the middle of a crossfire. Aside from another, brighter red house on the right side of the road, the open ground was empty clear to the hills beyond, so he hustled around the bed, where Faris, Taylor, Reisinger, and Fernandez were already jumping out, and headed for the corner of the red-and-gray house.

  Unfortunately, that area did not have an overabundance of cover, and that fence was going to create some problems. He dashed to the corner of the house and took a knee, cursing the fact that the bad guys were probably going to put more bullet holes in their trucks and further erode their camouflage. They had all been riding with their faces covered, to make it slightly less obvious that they weren’t Mexican, but that wouldn’t help that much if the vehicles looked like they’d just been in the middle of a firefight.

  He leaned out to peer around the house’s veranda. Puffs of muzzle blast popped from trees to the east and the bullets spat fragmentation off the red plaster. He returned fire, though the shooters were using cover well, staying behind the piles of gravel. His own rounds blasted pebbles into the air, but did little else.

  He slowed down, searching for targets, even as he heard Moffit yelling at Coffee to maneuver the gun truck to where he could engage with the Minimi. The house was cutting off his field of fire.