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First Edition Design Publishing - Daniel Thompson

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144 pages

English

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What would really happen if the President of the United States decided to use the Army's Delta, Special Operations Command of Fort Bragg to attack drug cartel operations along our southern border? If Mexico's economy, once supported by American tourist dollars fell flat after drug violence brought death to American tourists who would he call upon?

Informations

Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	03 novembre 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781937520335
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Borderland
War

by

Daniel Thompson
Copyright Daniel Thompson 2011

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form, except for brief quotes used specifically within critical articles and reviews.

ISBN 978-1-937520-33-5
Published by First Edition Design eBook Publishing
November 2011
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

Father’s Press (PRINT)
Lee’s Summit, MO
www.fatherspress.com
Book Dedication

Sergeant First Class, Ronald Aaron Grider
9-18-1980 - 9-18-2010

This book is dedicated to United States Army, Sergeant-First Class, Ronald Aaron Grider and members of his Special Operations Command team of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Their extraordinary skills, courage and commitment keep the American people in their in debt. Aaron was a skilled warrior who served with great pride in his unit.
Aaron, lovingly known by his family as Hank, died in combat in the Kunduz Province of Afghanistan on September 18, 2010. He was highly trained in his chosen profession. We have learned from Aaron's fellow command soldiers that few warriors trained harder, developed new skills with more natural ability or prepared for missions with more dedication than he, and we know from his loved ones, that no man enjoyed life and his young family more than he.
Aaron is remembered for the exceeding human traits of a kind and loving husband and father who is sorely missed by his young wife and daughter, his father, his mother and step mother, his sister, aunts, uncles and cousins of his grieving family.
The following story is fiction. It in no way details an actual mission of The Special Operations Command. Instead, it acknowledges that special-op Fort Bragg soldiers have been called upon to resolve matters just as dynamic and challenging as the fictional infiltration of Mexican drug cartels proposed in the story that follows. The portrayal of these fictional events is not that far from reality for Aaron's team members. The Special Operations Command is routinely assigned missions that they are especially prepared for. No other could take their place.
God bless Aaron, his family and his brothers and their families of the Special Operations Command. May they keep up the good fight and return to live among those who are indebted to their skill and sacrifice.
Aaron's wife, Brittany has created the Aaron Grider Foundation to assist surviving family members of fallen soldiers. More information about their mission and their work can be found on their website at: www.aarongriderfoundation.org
Chapter One

Lauren did not want to come to Cancun. She had read about growing drug violence in Mexico, but I had assured her that these incidents were limited to border towns. I shouldn't have brought her here. I know that I compromised her safety to save a few dollars. With all of the military training in risk assessment and surveillance, I should have picked up details that would have told me that something violent was about to happen. I had not picked up on even one warning of the violence to come, and Lauren paid the price.
Lauren and I were lying on the beach at Cancun's Hotel Princesa del Sol. We had been in Cancun for two days of my planned seven day leave. Lauren had looked forward to soaking up some sun and enjoying Mai-Tais. I should have taken her to Hawaii, but Cancun was much cheaper and easier to get to.
Lauren and I came down for breakfast on the beach-side veranda. Lauren was the most beautiful women who I had ever been with. When we met the first time I hoped that she was into Latino men as much as I was into the silky smoothness of her pale pink skin, and freckles spawned by the strong sun of Cancun.
"I need to get out of the sun for a while," Lauren said. "I am ready for my first Mai-Tai of the day."
"This is Mexico. You are supposed to drink Coronas and Margaritas, not Mai-Tais," I teased.
"But I don't like Margaritas. I like Pina-Coladas and Mai-Tais," she complained.
I watched Lauren rise from her beach towel and trot off toward the swim-up bar at the pool. I grabbed our towels and shoes and followed her a few seconds later. A cold Corona was sounding pretty good.
At pool side, Lauren pulled the wrap from the bottom of her bright yellow bikini and tossed it on a lounger. She secured her bikini top before she dove in and swam toward the bar.
I laid the towels and shoes on the recliner.
Without a bit of warning they flew back at me, striking my face with startling force, mashing my nose as if I had been struck by a heavy weight foe.
I was lifted completely off of my feet. My head struck the concrete pool deck. I was left crumpled in a pile several meters from where I had been standing as if I had been picked up and slammed down on the deck.
My breath was pressed out from my lungs. I struggled to remain alert. I needed to rise to my feet. My training told me to rise, assess my condition, and move to safety. I fought to regain my breath and move away from the defenseless position in which I suddenly found myself. I could not see. My face stung from flash burn. Waves from the blast pulsed through my ears.
Then, I picked-up the earthy, familiar odor of C-4 explosive. It was at that moment that I realized that Lauren and I were causalities of a terrorist attack.
"Lauren. Lauren." I screamed, still fighting to rise to my feet.
Someone leaned over me and lifted my chin.
"Lauren?" I asked, reaching for the person leaning over me.
I could not identify the person. My stinging eyes, ears and nose were filled with C-4 odor and would not clear and help me assess the conditions around me.
I heard a female voice say, "This one is alive." The voice was not Lauren's. The person moved away, leaving me stranded on my knees.
I reached for my left ear as I felt a tacky moisture streaming down my cheek. Blood was running from cuts on my head, I realized. My face stings. Jagged pieces of shrapnel are imbedded in my face,' I realized as I ran my fingers over my face.
"Lauren." I called. There was no answer. "Lauren!" I screamed.
I finally rose to one knee, steadying myself with a hand on the concrete deck. I looked up and realized that there was a huge cavity where the swim-up bar had been a short time ago. The stools from the front of the bar, and anyone who might have been sitting on them were gone. The pool was empty. No people. No water.
The roof over the bar had been ripped away. I saw pieces of it wedged against the hotel. Lawn furniture and everything in the immediate area had been blown away. Concrete from the pool and decking were heaped amid crumpled piles of debris.
I recalled being shocked from bomb concussion on missions in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was familiar with being caught in blast zones, though I had never faced a bomb flash with this much force. I smelled the odor of my singed hair, and felt the sting of particles pressed into my face.
I must be turned around, I thought. The bar isn't where it had been moments earlier. I tried to rub my eyes to clear my vision. I gained my feet and walked toward the pool bar to find Lauren.
Bomb, Glass shrapnel, odor of C-4. Those were my first few recollections.
"Lauren," I yelled. "Damn it! Lauren!"
"Oh, no! No!" I screamed. My eyes came to a piece of yellow fabric in a stand of ornamental bushes near the footpath.
I stumbled toward the mound. The force of articles blasted through it had mashed the grass down. A piece of Lauren's bikini top laid against the tall, tufted grass.
"No!" I screamed.
I pushed the grass away from the bright yellow patch of color. I gazed down upon Lauren's bikini bra. It had one of Lauren's arms still in it.
"I am to blame for this!" I screamed. "I should not have brought you here."
"Lauren!" I cried. "I am so sorry!"
I saw a piece of gleaming metal imbedded in a tuft of grass. It was hidden by Lauren's arm. I recognized it as a blasting cap. I brought it to my nose.
"C4," I said.
I looked out toward the beach remembering one beach peddler who stood separate from the others. I saw a group of peddlers hurrying from the scene. The man who I had noticed earlier was ahead of the others as he scurried down the beach.
Khaki Bermudas, white tee-shirt and white running shoes. That seems strange, I noted.
Someone grabbed my shoulder. I recognized him a local police officer. He had me by the elbow, steadied me on my feet, and tried to lead me away.
"Let go. I can walk," I said
"Who did this?" I asked. "Who were they after?" I pressed in Spanish.
"El Toro, perhaps," he muttered. "Everything here is El Toro."
He held my elbow as he walked me toward an officer standing near the edge of the crater.
I overheard him tell the officer, who seemed to be his superior, that I was asking questions. He also told him that I spoke in Spanish.
I placed my face in my hands. The particles imbedded in my skin throbbed in searing pain. I felt another tug on my arm. I removed my hands from my eyes to find the police officer and his superior standing in front of me. The junior officer stepped back. He left his superior and me alone.
"I am Captain Reynosa. Are you an American police officer?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Your name, Sir?" he asked.
"Hector Ramirez," I said.
"Where do you live, Mr. Ramirez?" he asked.
"Fayetteville, North Carolina," I said.
"You should stay back and avoid interfering with our investigation," he said. "This was obviously a gas explosion. I am sure that we will confirm that fact in a few minutes," he said. "We have this well in hand."
"This is no gas explosion, Captain," I said.
"And, how would you know that? You said that you are not a policeman."
"Over there, in those bushes is a blasting cap and it smells of C4," I said.
"How would you know that?' he challenged."
"I am a veteran, and I know exactly what C-4 smells like," I told him.
"Were you alone?" he asked. His tone changed.
He called an officer to his side. "Find what he was looking at." He pointed in t