GWOT V - Bad Choices
Aug. 17th, 2021 07:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT V - Bad Choices
After a few months, it was clear that Campos Sector did not need me as the commander.
I had Camp McNasty running well. My platoon leaders were now interchangeable. We were doing an OK job of interfering with the never-ending flow of refugees north and south, and to a lesser extent annoying those who were smuggling arms, stolen goods and dangerous narcotics north and south.
I'd established working relationships with my counterparts at the CHP control point, the vaguely annoying and extremely secretive folks who might run California Republic military patrols somewhere near the ruins of Campos itself, my supports at Battalion and the CANG base at Arrowhead, the local governments of Campos Indian Reservation and (grudgingly, at arms length) El Centro, and so on.
Supplies came in slowly, detained ("by military procedure") criminal suspects and the occasional wounded or ill detainee went out quickly. McNasty was actually a camp again, a "short term facility" from which detainees were bused daily to Fallbrook for adjudication. If the bus was delayed, they caught simple meals (the first many had had in days) until it was their turn. After adjudication, the return route for ejectees was through San Ysidro sector, so not my problem. For the fate of returning ejectees on their second pass, see "criminal suspects" above.
Once in a while, a passing California Republic military unit would eat at the canteen, gas up at the pumps, visit the oversized aid station, and even drop a few bucks at the tiny PX my company clerk ran.
We weren't the only ones playing on the Border for our team. CHP ruled the highways, with a helicopter rapid-reaction team based in El Cajon for their four-packs of SUV patrol troopers. Bear Force, which doesn't exist, might also be running around. Local law from the aforementioned jurisdictions was definitely running around; we had high hopes for the San Diego County Sheriff actually re-opening an East County office someday.
For the other team, well, we had Mexican border guards, Mexican Army troops, Federales, provincial paramilitaries ('provincials' never 'paras'), and Cartel patrols. They were all uniformed and as long as they stayed on their side of the border, they were the law and the rulers and the powers.
On this side of the border, Cartel coyotes, smugglers, pimps and murderers were absolutely fair game. Any uniform they might have been wearing was obviously stolen.
It sucks to be a refugee. It sucked slightly less at Camp McNasty. But getting there sucked a lot, and ended your travels in a way you might not like.
More than once, I'd seen - and my platoon leaders had seen -- how Mexican patrols dealt with border crossers who hadn't paid the Cartels for passage. I'd documented the events, with video, and duly notified the Commandant, Border Force and the Governor's Office. Eventually I started CC'ing the Office of Public Affairs and the news media. I kept expecting to get in trouble, but never did.
You can look it up on YouTube. If you have a strong stomach.
If they could pay, they paid - and that meant any valuables they were carrying, and the tender orifices of any gender and in some cases any age.
If they could not pay.
There were piles of bodies along the border that I and my scout-soldiers could not touch. Over the line, in Mexico. Where i was expressly forbidden to operate.
Bear Force did not get such orders because of course, Bear Force did not exist. The non-existent Bear Force certainly didn't have a training base in the area. Rookie Bear Force patrols certainly weren't sent into Mexico to be blooded before operating behind American lines. Of course not.
When small parties of distressed refugees were found by my patrols north of the Border, we detained them. Took them to Camp McNasty nine times out of ten. The tenth time, there was a Very Good Reason why not.
###
"Campos is calling," my clerk advised, and patched me the call.
In this context, it could only mean Campos Indian Reservation.
"We've got about twenty in custody here. Two of them say they're California troops."
I muted the mike.
"Head count, now."
This was a standard drill for any prison. I'd instituted it as a safety measure for the unit. On duty or off, you had to be accounted for 100%. So that we knew for example if you'd been rolled or some worse fate that starts with R and ends with your headless and handless body in a ditch, ankles bound with barbed wire.
I unmuted.
"Easy to say. Any specifics?"
"You'd better come get them. In force."
"Is this Major Alureo?"
"Yes. We give you permission to enter the Reservation, in force, and meet us at the truck stop."
Click.
"Intel!" I roared. In the next room over, the conference room cum command center, the intel clerk blearily stuck her head out.
That was enough. She would listen to the call, fire up the tools and the software, and figure out what the hell I needed to know.
My clerk had the count. We were all accounted for.
So I mounted the reaction platoon and we went for a drive down to the Campos truck stop, about forty minutes out if you drove balls to the wall. Which we did.
###
On the way, Intel advised me of what I was driving into.
I made a couple calls.
###
On arrival, there were about forty Mexican Army vehicles, with provincials and Cartel in proportion, in a half-circle south of the truck stop.
The stop was staffed with every resident who could carry a gun. Carrying a gun. The machine gun bunkers were ready and their rockets and mortars as well.
I gave them about twenty minutes before the Mexicans could kill them all, by wrecking the site, creating a three country international incident, getting about half their force killed, and last but not least, fucking with the 15% off the top protection money the tribe paid the Cartel.
That last would get their officer and his family murdered in ways it was my duty to think about, but which you would prefer never to know.
Unless it was at the Cartel's request. Then that would be his fate if he _didn't_.
I dismounted and walked up to the tense assemblage under the shade of the gas pumps. No traffic - they saw the situation and took the hell off as soon as they recognized it.
"Major Mendoza," I waved. "Major Aluero. Looks like a situation. How can the California Republic help?"
I wasn't in California anymore. I was on the grounds of the Campos Indian Reservation, tribal soil the Mexicans had technically invaded.
"Tell this asshole to go away."
"Major Mendoza, you're not here for the hookers and beer. Or you wouldn't have the bandits with you. What you want, hombre?"
That was just this side of insulting.
"Criminals using the border to hide from their crimes. Twenty men. I want them back."
I shook my head.
"Major, Major, you both know that California neither recognizes nor asserts hot pursuit doctrine. But California and the Campos Tribe have a mutual defense treaty, that one of you is invoking and the other is pissing all over."
"I'm authorized to besiege and interdict all traffic until the criminals are returned to Mexican control."
"And I suppose I'm stuck here watching you besiege. So while we're standing around with our thumbs up our asses, I'd like to meet these criminals and see what we can see."
The Mexican officer tried to go with us but Campos troops intervened. He looked pissed enough to chew iron and shit nails.
We went inside the truck stop. Out of sight in the hallway to the showers, twenty dirty, tired men in cheap campesino clothing sat in the hallway. They passed disposable soda cups of water from hand to hand with no concern for hygiene.
Migrants. Just migrants.
One had arranged, however, to be last in line. When I walked by him, he pressed my hand briefly. Pinky and ring finger.
Shit.
I backhanded him.
"Drag him," I ordered. They duly dragged him some distance, and manhandled him down a set of stairs into the lounge for the bordello.
"What was that for?" he complained, in California English.
"Nearly starting a fucking war. Name, rank, mission."
"Bear, shit, woods," he grumbled.
"This is going to be one hell of a cleanup job. Go pull your hombre. Just the two of you?"
He glanced at Major Aluero, who had shouldered in close and waved his men back.
"Answer, operative."
"Yes, just the two of us."
"Better be right. On your honor."
The other Californian was retrieved. I made another gesture, concealed by my body from the tribal major.
"Is that it? Just the two of you?"
The second nodded, warily.
"What's going to happen to the others?"
"Major, handcuff them and keep them down here."
I ignored their protests as I went back up the stairs. Soon the Major followed.
I had to pull him aside. I had to try.
"The others?"
He shook his head.
"No."
No, he would not lose troops and risk the survival of his tribe for strangers. Strangers who stank of cordite and had the calluses of insurgent troops at that.
I nodded tersely.
Campos troops leveled shotguns at either end of the corridor. Ankle irons were passed out.
Angry, harsh words in Spanish. The beginnings of a motion. A shotgun blast. The hard stink of blood and shit as the objector tried to hold his lacerated guts into his abdomen and failed.
The survivors put the ankle irons on, and hobbled in a line out into the sunlight, blinking.
Behind them a pistol barked in the corridor, ending one man's suffering.
The Mexican officer smiled.
"Thank you for your cooperation, and have a nice day," he said as they continued walking at a gesture towards the troops.
The Mexican officer raised a finger.
I held my hand down low at my side, palm flat and horizontal.
No action by California troops.
Not our country.
They shuffled forward, resignedly, towards the Mexican trucks. They couldn't run, but the irons promised hope of at least a few hours more of survival.
The Mexican officer pointed at the men twice, as if scolding them, and drew a finger across his throat.
Two technicals walked bursts into and across them.
A pause while a couple twitched.
A couple bursts ended that.
"Until we meet again, compadres," Major Mendoza called out cheerfully as he walked briskly back to his unit. They made a wide U-turn and headed back for their soil.
Objective accomplished.
###
As they drove away, I made another call.
Calling off the cavalry. Air cav out of San Bernardino. No longer needed.
###
The California operatives were incensed when they were pushed past the body. Then when they saw the line of dead...
There was a reason they were handcuffed.
We pushed them aboard our vehicles, nominally under arrest.
One tried to say something to me and was somewhat gently jabbed in the shin. Not nearly as risky as being jabbed in the gut, but still painful. I gestured for them to be put in some other vehicle, I didn't want to talk to them.
I nodded to Major Aluero. He nodded to me.
There wasn't anything else for us to do, so we left.
I got a brief radio call.
"Sir, they want to talk to you."
"That's nice. I don't want to talk to them. I'll interview them at McNasty. You can uncuff them if they behave."
###
In my office, they sat in chairs, with an orderly and a scout-sergeant to make sure they started following the rudiments of military courtesy.
"Operatives. My condolences on the failure of your mission."
"Fuck you."
"That's fuck you, Captain, sir," I explained.
"You nearly got yourselves killed as well as the fighters you were training. We'll return you to your unit in the morning. Eighteen brave men died because you fucked up."
I paused for emphasis.
"Learn from it, cubs. Now shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of my sight."
After a few months, it was clear that Campos Sector did not need me as the commander.
I had Camp McNasty running well. My platoon leaders were now interchangeable. We were doing an OK job of interfering with the never-ending flow of refugees north and south, and to a lesser extent annoying those who were smuggling arms, stolen goods and dangerous narcotics north and south.
I'd established working relationships with my counterparts at the CHP control point, the vaguely annoying and extremely secretive folks who might run California Republic military patrols somewhere near the ruins of Campos itself, my supports at Battalion and the CANG base at Arrowhead, the local governments of Campos Indian Reservation and (grudgingly, at arms length) El Centro, and so on.
Supplies came in slowly, detained ("by military procedure") criminal suspects and the occasional wounded or ill detainee went out quickly. McNasty was actually a camp again, a "short term facility" from which detainees were bused daily to Fallbrook for adjudication. If the bus was delayed, they caught simple meals (the first many had had in days) until it was their turn. After adjudication, the return route for ejectees was through San Ysidro sector, so not my problem. For the fate of returning ejectees on their second pass, see "criminal suspects" above.
Once in a while, a passing California Republic military unit would eat at the canteen, gas up at the pumps, visit the oversized aid station, and even drop a few bucks at the tiny PX my company clerk ran.
We weren't the only ones playing on the Border for our team. CHP ruled the highways, with a helicopter rapid-reaction team based in El Cajon for their four-packs of SUV patrol troopers. Bear Force, which doesn't exist, might also be running around. Local law from the aforementioned jurisdictions was definitely running around; we had high hopes for the San Diego County Sheriff actually re-opening an East County office someday.
For the other team, well, we had Mexican border guards, Mexican Army troops, Federales, provincial paramilitaries ('provincials' never 'paras'), and Cartel patrols. They were all uniformed and as long as they stayed on their side of the border, they were the law and the rulers and the powers.
On this side of the border, Cartel coyotes, smugglers, pimps and murderers were absolutely fair game. Any uniform they might have been wearing was obviously stolen.
It sucks to be a refugee. It sucked slightly less at Camp McNasty. But getting there sucked a lot, and ended your travels in a way you might not like.
More than once, I'd seen - and my platoon leaders had seen -- how Mexican patrols dealt with border crossers who hadn't paid the Cartels for passage. I'd documented the events, with video, and duly notified the Commandant, Border Force and the Governor's Office. Eventually I started CC'ing the Office of Public Affairs and the news media. I kept expecting to get in trouble, but never did.
You can look it up on YouTube. If you have a strong stomach.
If they could pay, they paid - and that meant any valuables they were carrying, and the tender orifices of any gender and in some cases any age.
If they could not pay.
There were piles of bodies along the border that I and my scout-soldiers could not touch. Over the line, in Mexico. Where i was expressly forbidden to operate.
Bear Force did not get such orders because of course, Bear Force did not exist. The non-existent Bear Force certainly didn't have a training base in the area. Rookie Bear Force patrols certainly weren't sent into Mexico to be blooded before operating behind American lines. Of course not.
When small parties of distressed refugees were found by my patrols north of the Border, we detained them. Took them to Camp McNasty nine times out of ten. The tenth time, there was a Very Good Reason why not.
###
"Campos is calling," my clerk advised, and patched me the call.
In this context, it could only mean Campos Indian Reservation.
"We've got about twenty in custody here. Two of them say they're California troops."
I muted the mike.
"Head count, now."
This was a standard drill for any prison. I'd instituted it as a safety measure for the unit. On duty or off, you had to be accounted for 100%. So that we knew for example if you'd been rolled or some worse fate that starts with R and ends with your headless and handless body in a ditch, ankles bound with barbed wire.
I unmuted.
"Easy to say. Any specifics?"
"You'd better come get them. In force."
"Is this Major Alureo?"
"Yes. We give you permission to enter the Reservation, in force, and meet us at the truck stop."
Click.
"Intel!" I roared. In the next room over, the conference room cum command center, the intel clerk blearily stuck her head out.
That was enough. She would listen to the call, fire up the tools and the software, and figure out what the hell I needed to know.
My clerk had the count. We were all accounted for.
So I mounted the reaction platoon and we went for a drive down to the Campos truck stop, about forty minutes out if you drove balls to the wall. Which we did.
###
On the way, Intel advised me of what I was driving into.
I made a couple calls.
###
On arrival, there were about forty Mexican Army vehicles, with provincials and Cartel in proportion, in a half-circle south of the truck stop.
The stop was staffed with every resident who could carry a gun. Carrying a gun. The machine gun bunkers were ready and their rockets and mortars as well.
I gave them about twenty minutes before the Mexicans could kill them all, by wrecking the site, creating a three country international incident, getting about half their force killed, and last but not least, fucking with the 15% off the top protection money the tribe paid the Cartel.
That last would get their officer and his family murdered in ways it was my duty to think about, but which you would prefer never to know.
Unless it was at the Cartel's request. Then that would be his fate if he _didn't_.
I dismounted and walked up to the tense assemblage under the shade of the gas pumps. No traffic - they saw the situation and took the hell off as soon as they recognized it.
"Major Mendoza," I waved. "Major Aluero. Looks like a situation. How can the California Republic help?"
I wasn't in California anymore. I was on the grounds of the Campos Indian Reservation, tribal soil the Mexicans had technically invaded.
"Tell this asshole to go away."
"Major Mendoza, you're not here for the hookers and beer. Or you wouldn't have the bandits with you. What you want, hombre?"
That was just this side of insulting.
"Criminals using the border to hide from their crimes. Twenty men. I want them back."
I shook my head.
"Major, Major, you both know that California neither recognizes nor asserts hot pursuit doctrine. But California and the Campos Tribe have a mutual defense treaty, that one of you is invoking and the other is pissing all over."
"I'm authorized to besiege and interdict all traffic until the criminals are returned to Mexican control."
"And I suppose I'm stuck here watching you besiege. So while we're standing around with our thumbs up our asses, I'd like to meet these criminals and see what we can see."
The Mexican officer tried to go with us but Campos troops intervened. He looked pissed enough to chew iron and shit nails.
We went inside the truck stop. Out of sight in the hallway to the showers, twenty dirty, tired men in cheap campesino clothing sat in the hallway. They passed disposable soda cups of water from hand to hand with no concern for hygiene.
Migrants. Just migrants.
One had arranged, however, to be last in line. When I walked by him, he pressed my hand briefly. Pinky and ring finger.
Shit.
I backhanded him.
"Drag him," I ordered. They duly dragged him some distance, and manhandled him down a set of stairs into the lounge for the bordello.
"What was that for?" he complained, in California English.
"Nearly starting a fucking war. Name, rank, mission."
"Bear, shit, woods," he grumbled.
"This is going to be one hell of a cleanup job. Go pull your hombre. Just the two of you?"
He glanced at Major Aluero, who had shouldered in close and waved his men back.
"Answer, operative."
"Yes, just the two of us."
"Better be right. On your honor."
The other Californian was retrieved. I made another gesture, concealed by my body from the tribal major.
"Is that it? Just the two of you?"
The second nodded, warily.
"What's going to happen to the others?"
"Major, handcuff them and keep them down here."
I ignored their protests as I went back up the stairs. Soon the Major followed.
I had to pull him aside. I had to try.
"The others?"
He shook his head.
"No."
No, he would not lose troops and risk the survival of his tribe for strangers. Strangers who stank of cordite and had the calluses of insurgent troops at that.
I nodded tersely.
Campos troops leveled shotguns at either end of the corridor. Ankle irons were passed out.
Angry, harsh words in Spanish. The beginnings of a motion. A shotgun blast. The hard stink of blood and shit as the objector tried to hold his lacerated guts into his abdomen and failed.
The survivors put the ankle irons on, and hobbled in a line out into the sunlight, blinking.
Behind them a pistol barked in the corridor, ending one man's suffering.
The Mexican officer smiled.
"Thank you for your cooperation, and have a nice day," he said as they continued walking at a gesture towards the troops.
The Mexican officer raised a finger.
I held my hand down low at my side, palm flat and horizontal.
No action by California troops.
Not our country.
They shuffled forward, resignedly, towards the Mexican trucks. They couldn't run, but the irons promised hope of at least a few hours more of survival.
The Mexican officer pointed at the men twice, as if scolding them, and drew a finger across his throat.
Two technicals walked bursts into and across them.
A pause while a couple twitched.
A couple bursts ended that.
"Until we meet again, compadres," Major Mendoza called out cheerfully as he walked briskly back to his unit. They made a wide U-turn and headed back for their soil.
Objective accomplished.
###
As they drove away, I made another call.
Calling off the cavalry. Air cav out of San Bernardino. No longer needed.
###
The California operatives were incensed when they were pushed past the body. Then when they saw the line of dead...
There was a reason they were handcuffed.
We pushed them aboard our vehicles, nominally under arrest.
One tried to say something to me and was somewhat gently jabbed in the shin. Not nearly as risky as being jabbed in the gut, but still painful. I gestured for them to be put in some other vehicle, I didn't want to talk to them.
I nodded to Major Aluero. He nodded to me.
There wasn't anything else for us to do, so we left.
I got a brief radio call.
"Sir, they want to talk to you."
"That's nice. I don't want to talk to them. I'll interview them at McNasty. You can uncuff them if they behave."
###
In my office, they sat in chairs, with an orderly and a scout-sergeant to make sure they started following the rudiments of military courtesy.
"Operatives. My condolences on the failure of your mission."
"Fuck you."
"That's fuck you, Captain, sir," I explained.
"You nearly got yourselves killed as well as the fighters you were training. We'll return you to your unit in the morning. Eighteen brave men died because you fucked up."
I paused for emphasis.
"Learn from it, cubs. Now shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of my sight."
no subject
Date: 2021-09-15 12:58 am (UTC)"If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row.
"If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."