Both Hummers were now fully stocked with food, water, and fuel. It was time to move out.
Bill and Sally looked back at their home — hoping that some day they could return.
“I never did kill all those bastards at the command post.” Bill whispered.
Sally grabbed his arm. “They’ll all be dead soon enough from Phosgene — and they’ll die in a way much worse than a bullet.”
The Hummer caravan of two drove south and stopped at the black FBI vehicle hidden in the bushes. It had survived the bombs and missiles! Bill hopped out and pulled the Detasheet and Primacord out from under the Hummer and tossed it into the FBI trailer.
“I think Reynaldo needs one of these machines to help him fight his battle. Hey, Reynaldo! You can have the FBI’s Hummer. You gotta help us switch the trailer to the dented Hummer and then the FBI’s machine yours.“
Reynaldo was overjoyed.
Reynaldo and the Pilot then tossed most of the guns and ammunition and some of the explosives from the trailer into the Reynaldo’s nice new black vehicle. He could really put the stuff to good use. They also dragged the spools of telephone wire out of the back seats and dumped them all into Reynaldo’s black machine. Moving the trailer from the FBI’s Hummer to the dented one was hard work. It hadn’t been designed to carry a ton of explosives and the trailer’s tongue was dangerously out of balance.
To the north was America — and the Laguna Mountains. To the south was Mexico — where this same mountainous uplift of granite was called the Sierra Juarez.
Crossing the border into Mexico was simply a matter of heading south — following the illegal alien trail and driving past the mangled breach in The Wall. The A-6 was now just a smoldering skid mark to their left and what must have been its dozen or more bombs had left a long line of deep craters in a straight line south toward Mexico City.
There was a cluster of cars and trucks around the jet’s wreckage. Mexican Federales were positioned around the crash site. They took no notice of Bill’s little caravan — they were busy selling bits of the plane to interested Mexicans.
Just to the east was the tiny mountain village of La Rumorosa. The place was really just a wide spot in the road with a tiny cafe and a Pemex gasoline station. La Rumorosa got its name from the sound of the whispering winds that whip through the 4,200 ft mountain passes.
For them it was the moment of decision. They could still drive east to La Rumorosa and then south into the pine forests, small lakes and then find the dirt airstrip. They could still steal a plane and escape.
And not by eastern windows only
when daylight comes,
comes in the light
In front
the sun climbs slow
how slowly
but westward
look!
the land is bright!
They turned west.
Few cars or trucks traveled these mountains roads at this time in the morning. The drivers and passengers of the cars that were on the road eyed the Hummers carefully — but probably thought that they were some kind of new Mexican military force. None of the Hummers had license plates and even if they had California plates most Mexicans would simply have thought they were Federal Judicial Police driving stolen — err — ”appropriated” — California vehicles.
Six miles west of their breach through The Wall they came to Colonia El Condor at the km 83 marker. Then they passed the commune of El Hongo at the km 99 concrete marker and halted. There before them — maybe three hundred yards away from them and fifty feet below them — was a Federal Judicial Police checkpoint.
Clinton had quietly told the Mexican government to put up a good show — show the world that they were really handling the drug cartels. By placing checkpoints along the border Mexico could demonstrate their “concern” about the mounting drug plague.
The police were squatting around a small fire at the side of the road. The morning sun shone brightly on the troops. It also blinded the troops when they tried to look upwards to the east and toward the Hummer caravan.
There was no argument. There was no discussion.
Sally had lost two children and needed some release. And now, right in front of her — and squatting in the dirt — was her chance. Bill stopped his Hummer and let Sally run around the back, step up to the roof hatch and let loose with the M240G machine gun. Every fifth round was a tracer and Bill could see the arcing yellow lines impacting into the Mexican’s vehicles, into the checkpoint office and into the bodies of the policemen. After nearly forty seconds of continuous firing enough fuel had leaked from the vehicles’ perforated gas tanks to detonate and create a red and black fireball that engulfed the vehicles, the men and the building. The fireball climbed high into the sky.
Suddenly the crackling and hissing noises of the burning pyre were drowned out by the sounds of steel tracks clanking over gravel. An ominous black shape swerved around the burning building and through the clouds of black smoke and glowing embers.
A Mexican Army M113 Armored Personnel Carrier loomed toward them — its fifty caliber Browning machine gun chattering wildly. Big chunks of asphalt started popping off the road around them. Even bigger chunks of dirt started exploding off the hillside to their left.
“Sally! Get em, Get em, Get em!”
Bill threw the Hummer into reverse and swerved rearwards and to the left. The trailer at the rear jack-knifed and its tires screamed as they were pushed sideways. The pilot lurched his Hummer forward and to the right and down the embankment.
Reynaldo threw his Hummer into reverse and skidded directly rearwards — slamming into a Volkswagen bus that had pulled up behind them. He didn’t stop at the sound of tearing sheet metal. He panicked and pushed the VW more than a hundred yards to the rear — till its bald tires blew out and the rims screamed on the concrete roadway. Two druggy surfers hopped out of the VW bus and started yelling at Reynaldo. Reynaldo was already excited and their yelling put an end to his restraint. He pulled the Berretta from his waistband and put five bullets into each of them. Peace to you too Dude!
Sally tried to keep her M240G hammering into the M113’s roof — which kept the Mexican gunner away from his gun. She was a short lady and had to stand on the tips of her toes to keep the gun on target.
Bill looked around in a panic. All they needed was for that 18 year old Mexican conscript gunner on the APC’s .50 caliber machine-gun to pop up for one long second and hammer them with a few lucky shots.
There was only one thing for Bill to do and that was blow the thing up. He hopped out of the Hummer and ran to the trailer — which by some miracle was still attached. He collected a sheet of Detasheet and two tubes of Tovex and wrapped them together with duct tape.
“When I get close to that APC you start aiming high! Okay?”
Sally didn’t even stop firing — she just turned her head slightly toward him and nodded.
Bill ran toward the APC wondering how long it would be before he got shot with a Mexican Army M -16.
He didn’t even try to place the charge under the APC. All he did was roll it towards the vehicle from thirty feet away and then run back to the relative safety of the Hummers.
Sally got the idea. As soon as Bill passed to her rear she lifted the stock of the M240G above her shoulder — depressing the barrel far enough to have her shots hit the ground in front of the Mexican’s APC. It was close — bullets were bouncing all over the place — and then one of them hit the Detasheet.
A huge flash of light appeared beneath the APC, then a pillow of brown smoke seemed to lift the APC up on one end and flip it right over on its top — exposing the open rear hatch. Flames were jetting out of a huge hole in the front center of the APC and fuel was sloshing out of ruptured fuel tanks and sputtering and burning. The Mexicans inside were screaming. One of them was trying to run from the conflagration but he had no arms to stabilize his movements. He fell.
Sally continued to fire the M240G into the scattered lumps of flesh-filled Mexican uniforms — and fire and fire and fire. Bill yanked hard on the ammunition belt and jammed the gun.
The echoes of gunshots bounced off distant hills and died away.
There were crackling sounds from the burning building and the APC.
There was some rapid popping as .223 and .50 caliber ammo cooked off.
Black smoke climbed into the cloudless blue sky.
All three Hummers started up again and passed the carnage without even stopping. All anyone did was hold up an arm up to shield their face from the flames and withering heat.
Mexican vehicles moving east and west stopped to see the destruction. For more than a mile farther west the cars they met on the road quickly pulled off and gave them a wide berth. It was easy to put the flames and the smoke visible to the east together with these military vehicles racing westward — especially since they were sprouting machine guns and rocket launchers on their tops.
But it didn’t take long to put enough distance between the smoke and the Hummers for traffic to return to normal. The three Hummers just rolled onward at their optimum speed of 45 miles per hour.
Seventeen miles west of their border crossing point was the pipeline from Presa El Carrizo — the large reservoir high in the Sierra Juarez mountains that sends its water to the Rodriguez reservoir just barely above sea level and east of downtown Tijuana. The population of Tijuana depends solely upon the mountain springs and rainfall flowing down from the 1,735 square miles of Sierra Juarez watershed for every drop of water they use. The first collection point is the Presa El Carrizo. The second, and only other, is the Rodriguez reservoir. Mexico’s Colegio de la Frontera warned Tijuana’s City Fathers years ago about the city’s tenuous water situation — even one minor disaster could cut Tijuana’s water supply and the city would quickly return to barren desert wasteland.
Bill stopped the caravan and peered down the mountain face. He could see the huge water pipe follow the contour of the mountainside and descend into the valley. Bill went to the trailer and grabbed some Detasheet and Primacord. He clambered over the collision barrier at the side of the road and edged over to the pipe. Bracing himself against one of the concrete standoffs he rolled ten pounds of Detasheet into a cylinder — as if he had rolled up a map — and then wedged it along the centerline of the pipe — between the pipe and the dusty earth.
The explosion wouldn’t cut the pipe in half — it would only create a spray nozzle aimed directly at the mountain itself. The water pressure would dig out the mountain very quickly. It was a technique used by California gold miners in the 1860’s to separate mountains from their gold nuggets.
He then ran a line of Primacord from the Detasheet to the far side of the road and fifty yards from the pipe. Then he stuffed the end of Primacord a half inch into the .45’s barrel and fired. The water line exploded with a loud crack and began to roar as a continuous high pressure water stream dug deep into the side of the mountain and then bounced out — creating a geyser blowing muddy water 200 feet into the air.
The pilot motioned to Bill and pointed to the “Tres Estrellas de Oro” inter-city transit bus coming toward them from the west and now slowing to a stop. Yes, the driver had a handlebar mustache and yes, the bus’s exhaust had been modified to make the classic Mexican “brap, brap, brap, brap” sound. The bus’s destination panel said “Mexicali.”
Bill had Reynaldo get everybody off the bus. Then they loaded more than two hundred pounds of Tovex between the bus and the side of the hill. Reynaldo told the passengers that it would be a very good idea for them all to walk back down the hill at least a kilometer. The passengers had a tough time getting off the bus because the road was narrow and there was barely a two foot gap between the bus and the side of the mountain.
Bill took a one foot square piece of Detasheet and taped it to the back of the bus. He then taped a double length of Primacord to the Detasheet and ran the Primacord around the side of the bus to the two hundred pounds of Tovex he and Reynaldo had stacked between the bus and the mountain. Bill then taped the double strands of Primacord to another piece of Detasheet and wrapped that around one of the dozen Tovex tubes. He then adjusted the stacked tubes so that the blast would focus on the side of the mountain.
The caravan of Hummers then moved a safe distance down the road toward Tijuana. When they were about five hundred yards from the bus Bill stopped and took his H&K 91 .30 caliber rifle and walked a few steps back up the road.
He then flipped the operating rod down to release it and let a round slap into the chamber. He took aim for not more than three seconds and fired.
He missed.
The “Bus people” hissed and laughed.
Bill turned and looked at everybody then flipped the rifle’s two bipod legs down and lay flat on the ground.
He fired.
He fired.
He fired.
BOOOOOM!
The bus deflected the massive explosion back against the side of the mountain. The bus was launched sideways and then thrown down the mountainside. The explosion had dug more than 200 cubic yards of earth out of the hill and all of it now blocked the road. Using the bus as a shield to focus the blast is far more effective than what is called “dobying” — just slapping the explosive against something and hoping it makes a hole.
By the time repair crews came from Tijuana and then realized that they couldn’t get to the waterline from the west and then called for help from Mexicali — more than two hours away — the water should have taken most of the hillside down and collapsed the road completely. It could take years to fix this mess.
And Bill hadn’t even started yet.
The caravan drove westward into a bowl shaped valley and through the little town of Tecate. At the main intersection in the town — Calle Cardenas — they looked up the street to their right and saw the U.S. Border Patrol Checkpoint at the U.S. border. Almost everything in this valley depended on the supplies coming south across the U.S. border. Tecate had once been called “The clearest window of Mexico” by President Diaz — who knows what on earth he meant. Just more bullshit Mexican propaganda.
As they moved through the village they passed a brewery on their left. The smell of roasted hops and rich golden beer filled their nostrils. The place was owned by Mexican giant FEMSA and was called Cerveceria Cuautemoc Moctezuma — and made Tecate beer. Bill remembered the many times he would drive U.S. highway 94 to the Tecate border checkpoint, park his car and then walk south three blocks to the brewery. The Tecate brewery offered ice cold 16 oz samples — free — and the bathrooms were newer and far cleaner than those in most American restaurants. But that was another time and a different world.
Someplace right around here was another brewery — the one for Mexicali and Rio Bravo brand beers — that brewery was owned by an American company called AmBrew which was actually based in New Orleans of all places. He didn’t know anything about them except that it was rumored their bathrooms weren’t as nice.
Soon they were out of the valley and moving due west over a narrow two lane track of thin asphalt — so dangerous that the speed limit signs said 60 Kmh — less than 40 mph. There were dairy farms to the left and olive groves covered the hillsides on both sides of the road.
It was as if they had been transported to the south of France — with all the good and the bad. The smell of Mexican dairy farms was overwhelming — the sweet-sour smell of fermenting, cow-piss-soaked mountains of cow shit filled their nostrils and pounded their brains. God damn what a stench! Romantic Mexico!
The caravan moved on through some undulating hills and started to pass through a narrow cut when Bill suddenly screeched to a stop and motioned for everyone to back up.
Just to the south of them — maybe three hundred yards away — were five huge white GAS SILZA high pressure propane storage tanks.
Bill motioned for the pilot to come forward to Bill’s Hummer. “Let’s see if we can figure out how to make the TOW missile launcher work.”
Bill’s Hummer stopped across both lanes of traffic. Several cars pulled up to within twenty yards and horns started blaring. Sally climbed out the right rear door, lifted the M240G onto the top of the Hummer and just kept firing until all of the horns were silent. Cars that could still move suddenly found great interest in returning to Tijuana. Sally tracked up their exhaust pipes with steams of tracers and followed them for 900 yards up the road — where the tracers finally burned out.
“Let ‘em go” Bill said. “Nobody’s gonna believe em.”
It took some doing but Bill and the pilot were able to get the Kollmorgan AN/UAS-12C Thermal Imager weapons sight operational. Their big problem was how the TOW missile fit into the launch tube.
The missile was encased in a green graphite epoxy tube. About mid way down the tube there were two lugs that looked like stainless steel ears. By sliding the nose of the epoxy tube toward the front of the launch tray — or tube — the lugs found their registration sockets and the missile clicked down into place.
At the mid point of the tube there were two round connectors sticking straight up. One looked like a half inch diameter ball bearing. The other looked like a disk. There was an eighth inch diameter steel pin sticking out of the center of the disk. This pin did not depress — but the disk around it did.
Above the mid point of the tube and as part of the mount there was a large square block of aluminum with a lever on it. This block hinged down and hooked a thick pin on the tray and latched into place.
There was a lever with a red rubber cover on it.
“I betcha that this lever is the safety!” Bill said as he lifted it.
He held the traversal handle and noticed that there was a trigger device protected by a steel cover.
Bill slewed the launcher around and toward the propane tanks, looked down at Sally and the pilot, shrugged his shoulders and clicked the trigger paddle with his thumb.
It was not like any “rocket launch” Bill had ever seen before — there was just a tremendous crash and a huge cloud of smoke. Instead of flying, the missile scooted along the ground for the three hundred yards and then slammed into the back end of a propane tank. A huge white cloud of liquid propane enveloped the tank.
Thank God there was no warhead detonation — at this distance everyone would have been torched. Bill had no idea how much energy was stored inside one of these tanks. He was going to find out.
Before them there now was a rocket from hell. The eight foot diameter, fifty foot long steel propane tank started to push itself off its concrete footings and bounced south across the valley — picking up speed. It hit a truck repair building doing more than a hundred miles an hour then flipped over and started rocketing northward — right back toward the road, toward the Hummers, and toward them.
Nobody moved.
The tank loomed larger and larger. It was skipping and hopping across the ground like an errant Minuteman missile with no self destruct system. And it was headed right at them. The sound was louder than a freight train as a three foot wide freezing jet of propane blasted out of a crack in the tank’s rear end — now pushing the tank end-over-end and then into the air. The tank arched up and then slammed nose first into the road not fifty feet from the lead Hummer — and Bill.
The ground shook so hard that the Hummer bounced into the air. At fifty feet the screaming roar of high pressure gas blasting through the crack in the tank was so loud it made Bill’s guts vibrate. Propane replaced the air around them. The sweet smell of propane filled their nostrils and they gasped for breath. The tank stood on end for a split second and then it started to fall over. Its nose dug a deep furrow in the hill, bright sparks bounced off the ground and the tank roared off to the north, over the top of a low hill and then out of sight.
Bill’s eyes looked like saucers. Sally had wet her pants.
Bill tumbled out of the Hummer and lay flat on his back on the ground. His legs could not hold him up.
“I’m gonna have a heart attack!” Bill could only lay there.
The pilot came around the side of the Hummer and stood over Bill — casting a long early-morning shadow over Bill’s face. “Good thing that TOW missile didn’t go off! We’d all a been toast! There must be some kind of minimum range limitation on these things and when it slammed into the ground the safety systems musta kicked in.
Hey, and I kinda think we should really count our blessings. So much gas was spewing outa that tank that there wasn’t enough oxygen for all those sparks to detonate the gas.
Let’s try it again but from over there to the west — it’ll give us a safety margin of a mile or so.”
Now Bill knew why pilots earned their money. This guy was a calm as could be — they had come about as close a you can get to being squashed by a 50,000 pound steel hot dog full of propane going maybe two hundred miles an hour and this guy’s acting like they had just accidentally driven over somebody’s cat.
Bill opened his eyes and looked straight up into the sky — into the shadow of the pilot’s face — and said, “Okay … but this time you do it!”
There were more than a twenty Mexican cars and trucks parked in all directions on the road. Some were riddled with Sally’s machine-gun bullets, some were burning and some were still frantically trying to back up and drive away.
The caravan dodged the riddled and burning hulks and moved on to the west.
The road climbed a slight rise. The pilot took the lead as the road entered a cut in the western hills. The pilot stopped, crawled into the back, flipped the Hummer’s rear hatch open and started loading a TOW missile into the launch tube.
The other two Hummers drove around him and parked behind the cut in the hill.
Bill trotted over and helped the pilot with the weapons sight. “I think we can get this thing to give us range to target. Yes — that button there.”
The pilot slewed the launcher around, fiddled with the buttons and aimed the missile at the center of the next propane tank in the row. “The range is three thousand yards. Think that should be a safe distance?”
“You’re askin me?” Bill said.
The pilot fired.
BOOM!
The missile made some strange blap, blap, blap noises and porpoised through the air toward the steel propane tank.
KAAABOOOOOM!
The missile hit the tank with enough force to knock it off its concrete mount. The TOW missile’s shaped charge sent a jet of hyper-velocity gas through a three inch hole in the front side of the tank and out a one inch hole on the back side. A ball of flame a quarter-mile across engulfed the tanks.
In three ground-shaking thumps the remaining high pressure tanks exploded. The seismic impulse traveled through the earth at more than two miles per second and tossed the Hummers around as if they were plastic toys.
Flames were being sucked into a vortex and carried more than a mile into the sky.
“We figured that one out didn’t we …” The pilot yelled to Bill over the noise of the burning propane.
“Oh sure … we’ve learned how to use a TOW missile all right.”
“And why are we all still alive?” Bill thought to himself.
Another twenty minutes and they were at the outskirts of Tijuana. They pulled off “Mexico Highway 2” and then to the right — onto a dirt road as Reynaldo instructed — and then drove north toward the U.S. Otay Mesa Border Checkpoint. Less than a quarter mile from the U.S. border they turned left and then stopped — behind one of the new manufacturing plants on the east side of the Mexican airport.
Just a few hundred yards away was the Baja California headquarters of Mexico’s National Institute For Combating Drugs — a pit of criminal extortion, bribery and murder. It’s sister agency — the Federal Security Directorate — had been disbanded because its agents found it more profitable to become members of organized crime, free-lance armed robbers or professional kidnappers. They were the hirelings who raped Reynaldo’s village of San Quintin.
Thanks to NAFTA, thousands of American jobs had moved to Mexico. But just barely. Some of the largest companies in America had closed their U.S. plants and moved south of the border. The incredible thing was that they had moved only about a hundred yards south of the border. Thousands of Mexicans came to work each morning at these American plants in Mexico. These plants then trucked the completed goods a quarter mile to the Otay Mesa Border Crossing and a hundred yards back into America. The American company warehouses on the U.S. side of the border then handled the shipping of the products to all of America. Everything from televisions to refrigerators were made right along the border and then shipped just a hundred yards to the north.
Behind this new, huge, white factory — the size of a two football fields — Reynaldo’s friends were waiting. There were five pickup trucks. Each had a 50 gallon drum full of machine shop scrap and two fifty gallon drums full of gasoline.
The men were scruffy and muscular. None was younger than 45. Each had a seriousness about them that Bill found inspiring. These people deserved help in their struggle.
Bill bowed slightly and shook each gentleman’s hand. Their grips were firm — if callused.
“They say they have brought you material from the construction of the movie set for Titanic.” Reynaldo said proudly.
“The motion picture was created in Ensenada — on the beach just a few kilometers from here.
These men were responsible for the cutting and shaving special metal parts. They used their lathes and cut various round objects which you can see in the movie — including the outside railing of the ship itself.”
“I congratulate them on their contribution to the making of such a fine motion picture. Titanic could be the finest motion picture of this century of fine motion pictures — and they participated in its creation!”
A serious look came over Bill’s face and he asked Reynaldo to translate exactly what he now said:
“We do not have much time. I must hurry to instruct you in the use of real power. I am going to show you some true secrets of this power. You have always had this power. You only needed someone to show it to you. Just listen and watch.
Many years ago — in 1991 — America attacked Iraq and destroyed much of their technology. While we all think that America used big bombs — which is true — the first weapons they used were made from bits of thread.
Yes, thread. This thread was very special. This thread was loaded into about 12 cruise missiles and flown 500 miles into Iraq. These cruise missiles — costing about $2,000,000 each because they were so special — were told to drop their loads of thread on top of Iraq’s power plants. This thread was made of a material that conducted electricity. When the thread touched the big electrical machines at the power plants the machines exploded. The electricity inside them was shorted out — the electricity became confused and melted the machines.
We are — today — going to do the same thing and destroy the Mexican government’s control over you. Electricity is power and the government soon will be castrated.
The best and easiest way for you to do this is use aluminized Mylar — like you might have as tinsel for a Christmas tree — or you can use chopped up aluminum foil. All you need to do is drill a small hole in the side of a piece of four inch pipe that has been sealed at one end and then put the heads from ten large boxes of kitchen matches in the pipe. If you are energetic you can clip just the white tips from the matches and use only them. Then stuff a dry rag into the pipe — a clump about the size of your fist — and then put in a small plastic bag that you have filled with dirt. The bag should again be about the size of your fist. Then stuff many loose fistfuls of the Mylar or aluminum foil on top of that. Then cover this with another fist of dry rag. Do not press down. Leave the contents of the tube fluffy.
Now, you can make a fuse from all sorts of things. You can use two soda straws taped end-to-end and full of match heads — that’s good for about 10 seconds. You put the fuse into the small hole that you drilled.
If you do not want to use a short fuse then don’t drill the hole at all. You can instead just put the piece of pipe in the middle of a small camp fire. If you just put it in the middle of a campfire then you will have maybe five minutes to get away.
But you must get far away. These pipes will sometimes explode and if you are close by — then this explosion will kill you.
What do you do with this thing?
You put it directly underneath any high voltage power line — the huge towers you see running from Ensenada to Tijuana. Or you can aim the device at the heavy bare wires you see above a power substation. Or you can aim the device at the big electrical machines at the power plant itself.
What will it do?
It will destroy the power system.
Yes, it really will.
Just because you have never seen this work does not mean that I am telling you a story. Just because it seems so simple does not mean that it does not work.
This works.
Now, what we will do today is build a much bigger version of such a small device. We are going to use these big drums full of bits of steel shavings that you have brought with you — to short out the generating plant at Ensenada!
We will destroy the generators and it should take more than a year for them to send in new armatures by ship.
We must aim the blast of metal bits at the big cables coming out of the walls of the generator plant — it is only there at the outside of the plant that the electricity is switched on and off of the big power lines.
If you short them out right at the wall of the building then the generators will be destroyed.
I am giving you each ten pounds of Tovex and a booster — a material that must be used to help the Tovex explode. I am also giving you each two blasting caps. You must use both caps. Do not save one. It is too important that your efforts be successful.
First, perform these measures approximately one hundred fifty meters from your target.
You will take shovels and dig a hole maybe a half a meter deep — again approximately one hundred fifty meters from your target. Then you will place an empty oil drum in the hole. Then you will aim the drum at your target and facing up into the sky at a 60 degree angle — thus. Then you will secure the position of the drum with the earth you removed from the hole. Make certain that you have built up a nice mound of earth all around the drum.
You will then take the spool of wire and find both ends.
You will strip the insulation from the ends of the wires and twist the bare ends together. The wires at the end of the spool — the ones right at the core of the spool — must be shorted together.
When you are ready to commence the next procedure you will make certain that the wires at the center of the spool are in fact twisted together.
You will attach the two blasting caps to the wire at the outside of a spool of wire … thusly.
Then you will take the black material and wrap it around the Tovex like a tortilla wrapped around a piece of meat.
Then you will lay the blasting cap on top of the black material and tightly wrap six wraps of your wire around the cap and the black material and the Tovex. This couples the blast of the cap to the booster charge which is tightly coupled to the explosive.
You will place the Tovex with the black material with the cap and with the wires attached at the bottom of the empty drum.
Make certain that the cap is on the bottom. You do not want to drop anything on the cap and have this device explode earlier than you had planned.
You must have the drum in place before it is too full or you will never be able to move it!
Then you will fill the drum half full with the metal bits you have brought with you today.
You will then carefully reel out the wire from the spool.
Make certain that the wires from the drum do not run parallel with any electrical wires near the power station.
Make certain that you do not untwist the shorted wires on the spool.
When you have retreated as far away as the spool of wire allows you need only untwist the shorted wires. Being so near a power station there should be enough stray electricity to instantly detonate the caps. If just un-shorting the wires does not cause an explosion then simply touch the wires to your car battery.
Do not stand and watch the results of your work. Large bits of steel will be flying though the air and can easily travel to where you are standing. Quickly get inside the truck and wait for one full minute for these particles to return to earth. Then leave the area.
Now, as to the drums of gasoline. On your way the power station this morning you must drive into Tijuana and dump the gasoline into the city’s storm drains. Each of you can pick a high point in the drain system. Just pour the gasoline into the drain. In fact, to make your efforts easier — just dump the drums off the back of the truck at the mouth of a drain and punch holes in them so that they might empty themselves.
You must have all of the gasoline in the drains before seven this morning.
You must be half way to Rosarito Beach by half past seven. That is very important. You must be far from Tijuana by half past seven.
It would be best if you could drive directly to Ensenada and send your metal particles toward the power station. And use all of your electrical wire — you must get far away.
You must use three of your drums today. You may save two of them for when the power station returns to operation a year from now …
I have given Reynaldo this American war machine — a Hummer. With this and the guns, ammunition and explosives inside you can destroy almost anything the Mexican Army can use against you. Guard this equipment well. No citizen of Mexico has ever had this much power before.
Use this material sparingly. You should be able to use this Hummer to capture more military material and then use that material to capture more and more. Destroy your enemy not his weapons!
Good luck.
Via Con Dios. Go With God …”
These men took their assignment with utmost seriousness. They finally had the weapons needed to stop the Mexican Army cold. Certainly the Benito Juarez military camp in San Quintin would be destroyed first.
But these simple people had no idea what a thinking white American like Bill Johnson could do to a city of two million — a city like Tijuana.
With the Navy pilot at the wheel of one Hummer and Bill at the wheel of the other Hummer they pulled out from the building’s parking lot and drove directly west toward downtown Tijuana.
The subtle differences between Mexican “pavement” and a dirt road were lost on them and so their path took them past the airport as planned — but then instead of driving south to Highway 2 they drove west and through the low hills of Colonia Libertad.
As they quietly rolled through the colonia this early in the morning they heard dogs barking in the distance and cheap music from cheap radios. None of them had ever seen such squalor — and they weren’t even one mile south of the U.S. border.
Tiny stones clicking off the sides of their vehicles combined with teenage punks making low whistling sounds and strange gang gestures at them gave them a really bad feeling of things to come.
There was no pavement on the roads of Colonia Libertad. The potholes and stinking sewage streams encouraged the caravan of Hummers to travel the streets carefully and slowly — giving the gangs of toughs the time they needed to spring a trap.
Far ahead of them — maybe three blocks down the hill — an intersection was blocked by more than two dozen members of the “Linea 13” — the colonia’s local gang. It wasn’t even seven in the morning and these guys were up and about swilling beer — or maybe their were still up and about and still swilling beer.
Some of the female gang members were standing at the periphery of the group strutting their stuff — like dwarfette “piglets-in-black.”
Some of the men wore silk head scarves wrapped tightly around their heads. Many were making gang signs with their hands and strutting around — walking like roosters in a barn yard.
The pilot saw them first — M1 rifles. These punks were armed to the teeth. Each had a .30 caliber rifle of the type used by American forces to win World War Two. Each fired essentially the same round as Sally’s M240G machine gun.
It was obvious that Clinton and the drug cartels had already started their war — and San Diego was soon to be America’s second Pearl Harbor — but with hundreds of thousands of dead civilians. The pilot thought of his family. They lived in Chula Vista, California USA — not five miles from where he was now standing.
Some of the women were carrying old M1 carbines — a weapon carried by American Army officers in World War Two and which fired a glorified pistol cartridge.
PLINK!
An under-powered bullet from one of these old M1 carbines slapped against the armored glass of the pilot’s Hummer. It was like somebody waving a big pink sign screaming “Go Ahead, Please Kill Me Now!”
One could just say that this single bullet strike was accepted as an invitation to demonstrate the subtleties of certain modern American weapons systems.
What the Mexicans seemed not to know was that these Hummers were not the usual cheapies seen around Mexican military bases. These Hummers each weighed 10,000 pounds. These Hummers’ windows were armored. These Hummer’s bodies — and even the doors were armored.
The armor plating was obvious to anyone who compared a regular Hummer with one of these M1114 Hummers. The big “Xs” shaped into the aluminum doors of a regular Hummer were covered over on the M1114 with nice thick armor plate. The entire vehicle had a “just go ahead and try it” look. Ogara-Hess & Eisenhardt had been paid more than $50,000 just to upgrade each of these Hummers and the government had certainly got its money’s worth.
These vehicles were designed for handling this kind of scum.
Certainly, the punks down the street thought that they were dealing with green Mexican troops who may actually have come to the colonia to sell some of their equipment for hard American dollars. Or maybe these were just rich Americano touristas and those funny things on top of their Hummers were just a new kind of tourista TV camera.
The pilot stopped his Hummer. His face was ashen. He motioned to Bill to stop and to really look at what these scum were carrying.
Bill pulled up abreast and stopped. He counted the rifles. He saw the green cotton bandoleers of M1 Rifle en-block clips hanging from their shoulders. Each clip carried eight rounds. Certainly just these vermin had enough firepower to assault the Otay Mesa border checkpoint and win. There was no way of knowing how many hundreds or even thousands more of these vermin were cleaning their rifles of cosmoline and loading them for the impending assault.
Bill, Sally and the pilot all looked around inside the rear storage areas of their Hummers for the toys they really had always wanted to use.
At first everybody picked a TOW missile.
No … too expensive and besides they only had 20 of them.
Sally then went for the M240G machine gun. The pilot picked up two M-16’s and Bill did the same.
The pilot motioned to Bill that they should load the grenade launchers beneath each M-16 fore-end.
Sally took it upon herself to cover their rear with the M240G.
Bill heard Sally racking the M240G’s operating handle back and forth to clear the jam he had caused.
“Sorry!” He said.
Sally didn’t even look around. She was too intent on defending their rear.
Then, on a count of three, Bill and the pilot each picked up an M -16, opened the Hummer’s door, laid the M-16 over the top of the door and started killing punks at the right and left edges of the group.
BDDAP BDDAP BDDAP!
As the Los Angeles Rodney King riots proved — it’s one thing to have a gun in your hands and quite another to really know how to use it. Possibly 50,000 Negroes rioted in Los Angeles. The homes and stores not looted and burned to the ground belonged to well-armed and well-trained Koreans.
Tijuana was no better.
The Mexi-punks tried to run from the Hummer’s kill zone by exiting to the right or to the left. All they did was run right into nice hot bullets and get themselves blown to pieces.
These scum had always hidden behind Mexico’s poverty and the powerlessness of the police. There had never been enough money to arrest, process and convict these scum. Now they were facing intelligent White Americans who saw them as exactly what they were — vermin to be exterminated.
Some of the punks had figured that they could encircle the Hummers, attack from the rear and maybe even steal the vehicles.
The punks coming around to their rear were also armed with M1 rifles. Some even had M1 Rifles with grenade launchers attached. From the way they held these weapons it was obvious they had never fired them before. It was like watching a circus to see these punks snap rifle operating rods to the rear and then attempt to stuff eight round clips into the guns. Two of the Mexicans got their thumbs stuck as their rifle bolts slammed closed.
Sally was sitting in an armored car and had an M240G machine gun which had been made in Belgium by Fabrique National and which fired 600 rounds of .308 caliber M80 Ball ammunition every minute. The Mexicans might out number them twenty to one but that still wasn’t enough to make it a fair fight.
Sally racked the machine gun’s operating handle back one last time — with a “clank” — and lifted the gun’s cover and laid in an ammo belt. She then locked the cover in place and racked the gun’s operating handle to feed a round into the chamber — with a loud “kershlunk.” The punks hadn’t expected anything like this. At first they started strutting their stuff and raising their rifles in the air. When they took a close look at what Sally had slewed around and pointed at them — they paused. But it was too late. Sally had already accepted their challenge.
CHUG, CHUG, CHUG — CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!
Bullets were coming out of the M240G at about the rate of the clicking on an old style dial telephone.
CHUG, CHUG, CHUG — CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!
Just a ricochet from the M240G can kill a man at three miles. At close range — and sent directly from the gun’s barrel into pink punk-flesh — the effect is a sight to behold. Almost every bullet impact creates a little puffy-pink cloud — of exploding flesh and atomized blood.
Sally simply cut these scum to pieces. God she felt good!
The M240G was throwing empty brass 20 feet south of the gun and right onto the sidewalk. The empty cases looked like little tinkling bits of gold sparkling in the morning light.
To the front, M -16’s were being emptied into the gang-mass — a total of 120 rounds fired from the four rifles in about 20 seconds — four M29 grenades were also blasted to the west and into the crowd.
It’s an odd thing to see puss-laden boils pop from the supersonic shock wave of a .223 round splatting into a druggie’s chest. If any of the female “piglets” lived through this they would probably die in a few days — from various pneumonic infections caused by their inhalation of the bacterial cultures from vaporized pus spurting off their boyfriend’s bodies.
The pilot noticed an eight inch wide stream of blood trickling out from under the front of his Hummer. He snapped his head around and looked to the rear and saw nothing but bodies, chopped flesh, some blood soaked clothing, several junky cars burning and more rivulets of blood.
Sally had slapped in another ammunition belt and was now hosing down the shacks on each side of the road — just to watch pieces of wall explode. The bullets were going through two, three, even four houses before they found something substantial enough to stop them.
As many as twenty of the shacks had already had their propane tanks punctured by her gunfire. There was literally a 120 degree arc of shacks burning at the rear of the Hummers — a hundred separate fires were burning, maybe more.
Bill started to climb into the back of the Hummer to grab her leg and get her to stop when the last round in her ammunition belt cycled through the gun. The last empty brass casing popped from the gun’s ejection port, the last piece of steel link fell from the gun and then the last of a killing machine’s shiny brass residue bounced around on what passed for a Colonia Libertad sidewalk.
Then there was nothing.
Silence.
Smoke.
The crackle of burning wood.
Distant screams.
Sirens.
“Okay, boss. What’s the plan now?” The pilot had now seen the enemy up close. He knew what this kind of vermin might do to his wife and children.
“We’re running out of time. What we gotta do is get down to the railroad tracks and wait for the morning train. It should be here any minute.” Bill said as he rummaged around in the back of his Hummer. Then he said: “What we gotta do is meet the train, kill everybody around it — without starting any fires … And then strap it with some of the shit in the trailer and get outa here.”
“And where do we go then?” Asked the pilot.
“Let’s worry about that when we live that long.” Bill whispered. He really didn’t have any idea what he was going to do after the train. All he figured he could do was get away from here as fast as he could and if they lived through the next thirty minutes he’d figure something out.
Moving slowly and abreast they rolled down the hill and reached the pile of chopped and burned meat that once was the gang “Linea 13” and its “piglets.”
The Hummers’ tires thumped over the bodies.
“Colonia Libertad is sure gonna be a more peaceful and law abiding place!”
Bill motioned to turn south.
About half a mile further on they came to the Tijuana river basin. They were lost again. To the left was Tijuana’s city hall. Ooops.
Cars were racing in all directions — oblivious to traffic lanes. It was nearing morning rush hour.
They drove south on Agua Caliente Boulevard and passed the Hippodromo — the race track — on the right.
And then to the east Bill saw it — maybe a mile and a half away. Presa Rodrigues — Rodrigues dam — Tijuana’s only local source of water.
Bill motioned for the Hummers to wheel left and face the dam. The pilot’s face turned ashen. The Hummers were now stopped right in the middle of a busy Tijuana intersection. Cars were driving around them and drivers were honking and screaming at them.
Bill ignored it all.
This was a really busy street! Cars were honking and even crashing into each other and even people on the sidewalks were yelling at them.
A couple of local transit buses pulled up and the passengers hopped out to see what these Gringos were doing. These busses were like something from Pakistan. One was of the “Verde Y Creme” line — green and cream. The other was from “Azul y Blanco” or blue and white. Both buses were former American school buses. Rather than have a set of signs telling riders which route the bus would follow the bus companies just painted the information right on the windshield with whitewash. Tijuana’s infrastructure was so bad that more than 70% off all public transportation was by taxi!
Bill moved to the back of the Hummer and pushed the rear hatch up and back. He then stood up and checked the Kollmorgan weapons sight. It still seemed to be fully operational. He then released the straps holding a Tow missile container in its cradle. He lifted the missile off the metal storage rack, stuffed the missile container into the gun tube and slapped the firing box down onto the firing contacts.
He was getting good at this.
There was an “ooooohhhhh” from the crowd when they saw the missile being slammed home.
The pilot tried to do the same thing but his Hummer’s rear hatch was jammed. Bill trotted around the cars and ignored the obscene gestures from the drivers and helped the pilot push the rear hatch up and open.
“You ain’t being serious. You’re gonna blow up the dam?”
“That’s what I have in mind … It sure seems like a good idea to me.” Bill said.
“We better hurry up before somebody who cares comes over and visits us”
“Look, we’ll be done in about one minute! All we gotta do is keep the missile aimed at the middle of the dam. We don’t have to worry about where we hit — so long as it’s someplace kinda at the center. We’ll both have to fire at about the same time so that the warheads detonate at about the same time. Hey, the dam musta been built around 1937 and probably not of the best concrete. If we hit at about the same time then the detonation wave should whipsaw back and forth through the concrete and help weaken it. You take the right side of the dam and I’ll take the left side.
See that car parked on the top of the dam? You shoot below him on the right and I’ll shoot below him and to the left.
We shouldn’t have to worry about fratricide because we’re facing the honeycombed rear of the dam and the blast from each missile should stay within its own little area.
You ready?”
The pilot nodded.
Bill turned and headed toward his Hummer. A brown arm lunged out of a 1960 Chevrolet and its hand grabbed at his shirt. Bill pulled the Colt .45 from his waistband and put three rounds into the open car window. The recoil pushed the pistol’s slide up and against the car’s window frame and the pistol jammed. Bill dropped the magazine from the gun, cycled the slide and slapped in a new magazine — all in less than four seconds. He then quickly put two more rounds into the car’s driver — all of this without ever looking in the car.
Blood was now spattered all over Bills shirt and trousers. The brown hand released its grip and the arm returned — or rather “slumped” — into the confines of the car’s interior. The noise of the horns honking and people yelling had drowned out the pistol shots.
Bill jumped onto the back of his Hummer and readied his TOW missile for firing.
Sally pulled herself down and into the driver’s seat.
Bill and the pilot looked at each other, turned toward their weapon sights, aimed and fired. Both realized that they had probably closed their eyes when they had fired the first two missiles. This time they were going to pay attention to the whole experience.
The noise was like ten shotguns going off at once and then continuing to explode for a full second. Then there was an even bigger boom and pieces of each missile fell away — only to be replaced by an even larger flame and lots more noise.
While neither of them could hear it — the crowd roared just like they would at a bullfight.
The TOW missile is a wonder of technology. Most of its technology was not fully appreciated by Bill or the pilot. The first thing that happened was a powder charge launched the missile from the tube. This charge canister then fell away and two side-by-side rocket engines ignited. At this same moment a xenon flash tube mounted between the two rocket engines started blinking and a fine control wire began un-spooling from the missile tube. This control wire would carry the control signals from the Hummer-based aiming system to the missile itself. The xenon flash tube tells the aiming system electronics where the missile is.
The rocket has no real control vanes. All it has are two flappers that can only flap all open to the left or all open to the right. The missile itself rocks or rotates about 40 degrees so that the flappers can at one moment force the missile to pitch up or down and at the next moment force the rocket to yaw right or left.
The smoke of the launch obscures the view for the gunner and the missile control electronics for more than a second. A target must be more than two seconds flight time away for the missile — or the gunner — to have a chance of finding it.
Lastly, a bad person might think that they can jam the TOW by flashing a really bright xenon lamp and faking out the aiming system. Nope. The aiming system automatically sends commands to the missile to change the blink rate any time it gets confused.
The control wire guiding the missile is just a bit thicker than a human hair. Anyone who has tried to snap a piece of this wire in his bare hands has learned a bloody lesson. This wire is strong and razor sharp. A quick pull through bare hands will cut right to the bone. All two miles of this control wire are wound into a spool not much larger than an empty toilet paper roll.
The missiles only took thirteen seconds to travel from the Hummers to the dam face. The flash and smoke of the missile impact and detonation was like a silent movie. It took more than ten seconds for the roar of the explosions and crackle of ricocheting concrete to rumble back across the valley and reach their ears.
At 1,200 feet per second sound travels only slightly faster than the Mach .9 speed of the TOW missile.
Bill motioned to the pilot that they should fire another round into the dam.
The crowd started to move toward them. They had finally figured out what the Gringos were doing and these Mexicans were pissed off.
Sally pulled the M240G out of the Hummer’s top hatch and rattled off a few rounds toward — of all things — a pharmacy window. The crowd scattered.
Bill and the pilot popped missiles out of their storage slots, slapped the missiles into their launch tubes, lined the missiles up with spots near their previous hits and fired.
The missiles roared to life and flew on digitally controlled paths for 13 seconds and impacted.
The center of the dam just gave way and water started pouring out like milk from a pitcher.
Two vertical cracks appeared in the dam face and water started pouring through them too.
Tijuana would soon be a very dry city. A very, very dry city.
“Hey you guys, you better do something!” Sally screamed.
About three hundred fifty yards behind them a line of maybe twenty Tijuana police cars had appeared — with their red and blue lights blinking madly. And each of the cars seemed to have its doors open and an AK-47 or an M-16 sticking out.
Somebody in one of the cars rattled off something in Spanish over the car PA system.
“Hell, you can’t understand anything from one of these PA systems when they’re speaking English — let alone Spanish.” Bill said.
To fire a TOW missile at these cops they would have had to turn around. And if they even just started to move then the Mexicans would open fire.
A real Mexican Stand-off.
Bill looked down into the rear storage area of his Hummer and counted the number of M-16’s he had with grenade launchers — six of them. Sally handed a grenade up to Bill and he showed it to the pilot.
The pilot nodded and dropped down behind the lifted rear hatch and started loading grenades into his M -16’s launchers. He only had four to load. He stuffed spare grenades into his flight suit pockets. He was ready to send the cops four quick ones and then about eight every minute thereafter.
Sally was hidden from view so she started loading grenade launchers and stacking the rifles so that she and Bill could fire them over the Hummers’ rear hatch. They then stacked spare rounds so that they could quickly reload.
Bill and the pilot raised back up and just stood there with their hands in the air.
“What do ya figure on range?” The pilot asked.
“Four hundred yards.” Bill yelled.
He didn’t believe it and neither did Sally nor did the pilot. Everybody set his sights at 350 yards.
On a count of three Bill and the pilot ducked and stuck M-16 grenade launchers out the hatches and fired. The grenades detonated around the Tijuana police cars and forced the police to flatten their bodies against the ground. Now full auto .223 fire hosed the police vehicles. The Mexicans didn’t know what was happening. More grenades were fired. The grenades flew at a speed only a bit faster than a well thrown baseball. By the time three grenades exploded in the line of police cars three more grenades were already on the way.
The Mexicans let loose with their AK-47’s and M-16’s but it was already too late. Besides, the Mexicans were trying to shoot over the tops of fifty parked cars to try and hit Bill and the Pilot. Bill and the Pilot only had to lob grenades and blast away at a slight downwards angle to clear the Mexi-cops from their vehicles.
Twenty grenades and 300 rounds of .223 in less than a minute ended the official duties of the Tijuana Police Department in this sector.
It was already over but Sally dragged a Barrett .50 out of the Hummer and dropped it onto the hood of a yellow 1974 Buick — who’s driver’s eyes turned wild, his arms flailed violently and he crawled into the back seat and lay on the floor.
Sally slid behind the Barrett, cranked the bolt back and let loose. Bill just stood there in utter amazement. The .50 caliber rounds were zipping right through the parked cars and the police cars and the cars behind them and even through a couple of cars driving down the street three blocks behind them.
She emptied eleven rounds into the cops direction and was trying to load another magazine when Bill grabbed her by the back of her belt and dragged her away from the weapon.
“That’s enough! It’s over!”
The Tijuana police department would need to hire forty more cops — and steal twenty more American cars from the streets of San Diego.
The Hummer’s rear hatches were scarred with bullet impact dents and ricochet marks — but that was all.
To get out of this gridlock’d intersection seemed impossible. But they quickly discovered that a 10,000 pound Hummer with double wide tires and mass quantities of horsepower could push even two cars out of the way at one time. It didn’t take five minutes to clear a path and reach the line of dead Mexi-cops.
They quickly drove through, around and over the cop-carnage and headed back to the north to find the train tracks.
It really is amazing how a society will try to pretend that there is nothing wrong and try to just continue in their old ways — until it is too late.
This was just as true here in Tijuana — where people just stood on the street corners and watched the Hummers wipe out twenty police cars and forty policemen and it was also true in America — where Whites stood there and watched their country be turned into a third world hell-hole.
In both cases the people were unable to believe what they saw with their own two eyes and so they simply ignored it.
Just as he neared the Hippodromo Bill caught sight of the U.S. Consulate. It was just up the street to the west about two blocks. Even with all of the noise and explosions, Mexicans were standing there in line waiting to enter the compound — to sit in cheap blue plastic chairs under a tin awning and wait their turn to lie about why they needed a visa to the U.S.
Not noise, explosions, sirens — nothing was gonna make these people lose their place in line. It was just amazing.
Even the street vendors were busy — sloshing out foam cups of coffee to people milling about on the sidewalk in front of the Consulate.
Bill caught sight of one “piglet” walking through the gate of the Consulate. The woman was wearing a black dress with six inch fringe all over it, fishnet stockings and five inch platform shoes. She was dressed. To her, this was formal attire for a business meeting and she was dressed to make a good impression for her Visa interview.
The Hummers moved on.
The morning train from Los Angeles had already passed through the Mexican border inspection area and was trundling south toward the gas works. The border gate over the train tracks had already been closed.
The train had only seven cars. Each of the seven cars was a black steel tank and each tank carried more than forty tons of liquefied natural gas.
Rather than waste time trying to flag the train to a stop Bill just bumped his Hummer behind a parked pickup and pushed it down the street and onto the train tracks. Seeing this the pilot selected a nice white Ford Explorer and did the same thing.
A Hummer could push a Ford Explorer down the street sideways at more than 20 miles per hour. Great fun!
They both continued to nudge one vehicle after another down the street and onto the tracks.
What may have been the owner of a purple 62 Chevy convertible now being pushed sideways down the street ran out of a tortilleria and yelled at them. The pilot ignored him and so the Mexican pulled out a pistol.
Before the Mexican could even pop the safety Sally had fired a grenade in his direction. The round impacted at his feet. The Mexican now had no legs.
The locomotive engineer needed 960 feet to stop the train. He was given 300.
The train slammed into the five vehicles on the tracks and pushed them about 500 feet and then dragged two of them another 100 feet.
Bill drove his Hummer right down the tracks chasing after the train. He drove right up to the tanker cars and when the train stopped he pulled up to the middle tank car and hopped out. Without even looking around he started packing plastic bags of Tovex between each steel tank frame and its steel tank.
He then taped some Detasheet to the center of each Tovex mound and connected the Detasheet at each of the cars with three separate runs of Primacord.
One length was set to burn from right to left, one from left to right and one out from the center and in a “tee” He then connected a fused blasting cap to each run of Primacord. The fuses were all a bit more than twenty feet long. This would give them about fifteen minutes to clear the area — if the fuse burned at its rated forty seconds per foot.
Bill then placed one rifle grenade round on the walkway of each tank car. He hoped that these rifle grenades would create a time delayed secondary explosion.
Bill now was stumped. He wanted to light the fuses but nobody smoked and so nobody had a match.
“Smokers are scum. They might as well have hypodermic needles hanging like fish scales out of their arms. Pieces of shit.” Bill rambled on and on like this as he looked around for something to use to ignite the fuses. His lack of sleep was really starting to get to him.
One of the trainmen came over as Bill was mumbling to himself and started yelling at him.
Bill just stood there and looked at the guy. Bill was unarmed.
The trainman knocked Bill down onto the gravel bed and tried to kick him in the head. At that moment the pilot ran up and put a 9 mm bullet into the Mexican’s back. The bullet zipped right through trainman, whizzed past Bill’s head, bounced of the ground and clanged off a tanker car. The bullet missed the Detasheet by less than a foot.
Guns can be dangerous.
“Good idea!” Bill irrationally yelled to himself as he ran down the tracks to the locomotive and told the engineer to give him some flares. The engineer stood there in the doorway eight feet off the ground with his hands high in the air. He seemed relieved to know that all Bill wanted was to rob him of some flares and so — keeping his hands up — he pushed an entire box of one hundred flares off the train with his feet. The box flipped and tossed its contents down onto the ground.
Bill then told the engineer that he’d better run before the tanks “caught on fire.” The engineer’s eyes widened considerably. He slid down the access ladder handrail, hit the ground running and headed toward downtown Tijuana. His remaining two helpers followed quickly behind.
Bill tossed the now half-empty box of flares into the Hummer. He then picked one off the ground and popped off the end cap and struck the starter material on the end of the flare. The flare hissed into life — spewing smoke and a bright red flame.
Bill went to the three coils of fuse and asked the pilot to watch. “Check the end of the fuse. When I put a flame to it there should be a ‘spit’ of flame from the fuse itself.”
The three fuses were easily ignited. Each spit a two inch flame.
They now had just fifteen minutes to get as far away as they could. Yes, sure, Bill could have put a sixty minute fuse on the charges. The problem was that this would give people time to come and mess around. Fifteen minutes would be just enough time to get away and yet not enough time for some ignorant person to be a hero and figure out what was going on and stop it.
Bill spent maybe twenty seconds stomping on the burning flare — breaking off the burning end. To the pilot this seemed a waste of time.
They all then mounted up and headed back toward Colonia Libertad. Bill tried to start his Hummer’s engine and the loud grinding noise told him that the engine had never been turned off. Bill was reaching the end of his rope. A few more hours — or maybe even minutes — and he might make a mistake that would kill all of them.
About four hundred yards up the road toward Colonia Libertad Bill stopped his Hummer and put the box of flares in the center of the road. He then ignited three flares and flipped the entire box of flares over on top of them.
The box started to smoke and as they drove away the box became a two foot high ball of red flame.
“Sally, could you hose down the sidewalks to keep people away from the flares”
Sally climbed up to the roof hatch and fired 9 mm rounds from one H&K MP5 and then from another into the general direction of the crowd of “Lookie Lou’s” walking toward the burning pyre. She purposely aimed low — bouncing bullets off the street and into the legs of the crowd.
Some of Sally’s bullets scooted along the ground and punctured the gas tanks in cars parked along the street. Rivulets of gasoline began streaming down the hill toward the flares.
The Hummers headed east — back toward the airport and the secondary border crossing point at Otay Mesa.
In fifteen minutes they had been able to get three miles to the east of the airport and down into what seemed to be a shallow valley. Across the border to the north they could see California’s Donovan State Prison. They were so close to America and yet so very, very far away.
The locomotive engineer was the first to return to the train. Then a Tijuana Municipal policeman arrived in his white Ford Explorer (and damn if it didn’t still have California plates!). People came out of an auto body repair shop and from three automobile upholstery shops.
They all stood around the train wondering what these Gringos had really done.
The policeman walked over to the first tank car and grasped a stand of Primacord. He then slowly walked along the tank car with the strand of Primacord loosely slipping through his hand.
“Why would a Gringo tie up a train with red and white rope?” He wondered.
The policeman suddenly realized what he held in his hands. Death. The policeman and tens, no, hundreds of thousands of Mexicans in the Tijuana river valley would soon know the truth.
They had failed.
Yesterday, it was the border areas of California.
Tomorrow it was to be the whole southern part of the Golden State — filling it with festering pustules of brown sub-humanity and then send them — oozing — to the crime ridden streets of Chicago and New York.
Hardened by the drug wars and with their hearts fired by a sacred mission to extend “La Raza” — their “Cosmic Race “ — to dominion over nearly a million square miles of America, the filthy hordes of diseased, drug-ridden murderers from Mexico were to finally surge north in a deluge of destruction:
Glory was their goal
Glory and wealth
and land
and the good life of the Norte Americano.
Mysteriously familiar, haunting names of the Mexican’s foe were to be notes for an American dirge:
San Ysidro
Chula Vista
San Diego
Los Angeles
San Bernardino
Sacramento
San Francisco
Viva la Raza!
Instead, they met a White America’s revenge.
The first fuse failed at about the ten minute mark. The second fuse was pulled from its place of honor by a thick fingered, dirty fingernailed, Mexican policeman. The third fuse burned all the way to its tip and detonated its blasting cap and then its Primacord. The Primacord carried the blast wave to all the sausage-like mounds of Detasheet boosted Tovex packed beneath the seven tank cars. The Tovex split the tank cars open and tossed nearly three hundred tons of liquid natural gas more than five hundred yards in all directions.
The crowd of people at the site were hit with a blast of near-freezing liquid moving at better than a mile per second.
High explosives “burn” so fast that there is usually no chance for them to actually ignite anything. In fact, explosives are the standard weapon used against oil rig fires.
The flood of liquid natural gas quickly vaporized and mixed with the warm dusty morning air of Tijuana. No, that is incorrect. The liquid natural gas vaporized and mixed with all of the warm dusty morning air of Tijuana. The boiling vapors created a blue-white fog sandwiched between the ground and an inversion layer hovering over the city at 2,200 feet. The boiling fuel-air mixture quickly filled the entire Tijuana river basin.
It would be impossible to ever determine what provided the spark that detonated this fog of death. It could have been the grenades falling back to earth and exploding. It could have been Bill’s flares or the street of burning gasoline. It could have been a cooking stove in a restaurant on Avenida Revolucion. It could have even been someone lighting their cigarette. In a perfect world the ignition would have occurred only after the gas and air had mixed completely — a delay of about one second for every 2,000 pounds of propane.
It really didn’t matter.
For the destruction was total. It was as if Bill had created an engine with a single cylinder two miles across. And he had then put downtown Tijuana right on top of the piston head and fired the spark plug.
When properly mixed and properly ignited, this type of fuel air explosive is four times more powerful than an equal weight of Tovex (or TNT). In addition, the dispersed gas covers a significantly larger area than would a solid lump of explosive and thus brings the explosion closer to its intended target(s). When used against a dispersed target (e.g. a city) it can cause one hundred times more damage than a conventional bomb of the same size. Lastly, the shockwave is of longer duration and therefore it has more time to push against its target and therefore cause considerably more damage than any other “conventional” weapon.
At the Grand Hotel Tijuana — in the Penthouse Suite on the 22nd floor — Juan Morello and Jesus Gamacho were discussing their drug smuggling routes and how each would remain in his own area of operation and not compete with the other for new territory. Their responsibilities to the Gringo’s Presidente Clinton were also mentioned and each acknowledged his solemn oath of servitude to “El Presidente.”
Sr. Morello was standing at the window looking east when he was fascinated by the sight of several rail cars flipping into the air like giant helium balloons unleashed at a birthday party. He stood entranced with the sight laid out before him. He watched the blue white cloud billow up and out of the cars and then course up and down the valley. The only thing that he’d seen like it before was a time lapse sequence of a thunder cloud forming — something he’d seen on a Nature TV program on San Diego’s KPBS public TV station. Sr. Morello was a very smart man. You did not get to be as rich as he was by being stupid. He stood at the window — looking at the tumbling and spinning tanks — and terror came up from his chest and out every nerve-ending in his body. He understood what he was seeing: Death.
All he had time to scream was: “Hell is upon us!”
Every gallon of the train’s liquefied natural gas was converted into nearly 400 cubic feet of gaseous vapor. This vapor was then given just enough time to mix with the atmosphere at a ratio of one cubic foot of vapor to 30 cubic feet of air.
Bill’s primary explosion had breached the tanks and quickly filled the Tijuana valley with more than seven billion cubic feet of explosive fuel-air mixture.
Then there came a fuel air detonation more powerful and far more effective than the dispersed detonation of seven Hiroshima-sized atom bombs.
All that is known for certain is that more than one million people were killed by the fireball and shockwave. Another three hundred thousand were killed in the fires.
“War is an act of force and to the application of that force there is no limit” — say philosophers of war.
Tijuana ceased to exist.
A few minutes later the largest electrical generating plant in all of Baja California ceased operation — immersed in a Saint Elmo’s fire with blue-white short circuits filling the air with the smell of ozone and bits of melting copper conductors. It would never be restarted.
The swirling winds of a firestorm boiled out of the Tijuana’s center — sending a million pounds of glowing ash over the border. Twenty miles to the north, the streets of downtown San Diego were covered with a thick layer of gray powder — the cremains of a city.
It took eleven days for the fires of Tijuana to burn themselves out. There was no water.
San Diego’s fire departments were not even able to send aid. Many of Tijuana’s main streets had been destroyed. The storm drains had been filled with gasoline and had exploded during the maelstrom — throwing millions of tons of debris in all directions. The streets were a jumble of burning cars, flattened buildings and six foot deep trenches.
Seven billion cubic feet of explosive fuel-air mixture had done its job well. Fewer than 2,000 Mexicans threaded their way north through the complete devastation that was now Tijuana.
In the cities of San Ysidro, Nestor, Imperial Beach and Chula Vista, White Americans loaded their hunting rifles and stood on their porches waiting for the Mexican hoards to stampede north. Some Americans took their rifles and scanned The Wall. When a Mexican showed part of his body over the top — a bullet blew him back into Mexico.
Bill Johnson — a White American — had solved the problem.
There were now fewer than 100,000 people alive in all of Baja California — a peninsula almost the size of California.
The elimination of Tijuana as a staging area for illegal entry into the U.S. put an end to the need for more California prisons and allowed the closure of half of the ones they had. It cut California’s welfare by 50% and the state’s freeway graffiti by more than 90%. Fire insurance rates dropped 10%, auto insurance rates dropped 40% and theft insurance rates dropped 50%. It was as if California had returned to the White America of the early 1950’s.
And Clinton would have to find something else to trade for cocaine.
When Joshua heard the sound of the people shouting he said:
There is the sound of war in the camp!
It is not the sound of might.
Nor is it the sound of defeat.
It is the sound of singing that I hear!
The two Hummers sat there idling quietly in a shallow depression at the far eastern side of Tijuana’s Rodrigues International Airport — twelve miles from the blast. The fuel-air explosion over Tijuana had been so powerful that planes parked at the airport had been blown a quarter mile off the runway.
The explosion had blown a flaming wind over the tops of their heads at more than 300 miles an hour.
Just to the east of them were the remains of Terrazas del Valle — another Mexican colonia. The colonia pimpled the hills with more than 22,000 scrap-wood shacks. There were no trees or even shrubs on these hills. There were no street numbers on the houses — you must find your way using a block number and then a lot number. There were no water lines and no electricity. A hard wind blew swirling dust-devils up the hillsides in the best of times. When it rained the dirt roads turned into shifting slabs of deep mud.
Terrazas del Valle was now a funeral pyre.
The sickly-sweet smell of burning chickens, dogs, and humans filled the air. The screams of living things mixed with the sounds of exploding automobile gas tanks and the sounds of exploding home-sized propane tanks. Terrazas del Valle roared in agony.
Bill felt the air being sucked past him and eastward — into Terrazas del Valle — a firestorm had begun. He looked up and to the east there was a glowing pink and black tornado swirling above the flames — creating a mushroom cloud five miles across.
Bill looked south and then west. Across the entire southern arc — east, south, and west — there were pink and black mushroom clouds — burning, avenging, killing. “The New World Order” would have to find some other weapon to use against America. Mexico was dead.
“Well, that’s about a million and one down — for Bobby and Samantha! And we’ve got millions to go!”
Bill, Sally, and Lt. Commander Adams would return to the United States and finish what they had not started.
Everything is falling into place.
Ezekiel said that fire and brimstone will be rained upon the enemies.
Governor Ronald Reagan