A large wave crashed to the beach, its back end sending up a fine spray of salt water into the pre-dawn air. Dallas Winston adjusted the peak of his faded L.A. Raiders baseball cap and wiped the salt water from his face. There was a slight chill in the air forcing Winston to button his camouflage jacket in an effort to ward off the cool pre-dawn breeze that was blowing in off the Gulf. Raising the binoculars to his eyes he scanned up and down the coastline checking to make sure that he was alone and that he had not missed the arrival of the commando team he was assigned to meet. Though he was technically on the Mexican side of the border Winston had little doubt he would be pursued if he were spotted by one of the mercenary units that patrolled the region, the fact that he was in a sovereign nation would serve little effect against their aggression. After all, the powers that be up in Austin kept a tight reign on their citizens, going as far as repealing their constitutional rights to bear arms.

Always regarded as an independent-minded state by the other states of the USA, Texas had decided on a separation from the national government after the economic collapse of the early twenty-first century, and, in 2003, officially changing its name back to the Republic of Texas. Since then the Texan President had unified the Texas Rangers, Highway Patrol and the Texas National Guard into one peacekeeping unit, reinforcing them with mercenaries from such nations as Germany, South Africa and the former Soviet Union. Regarded more as a paramilitary police organization by the people that they were sworn to protect, the newly reorganized Texas Rangers had gained a reputation as one of the harshest law enforcement agencies in the continental USA. Texas law required each of its citizens carry a Texas Republican Identification Number, a credit card sized identification device containing information about the holder ranging from blood type to criminal history. Those that carried 'the card', as it was commonly called, were naturally entitled to more rights than those who didn't, which caused deep division in the population.

Never a terribly forgiving place, the Texas environment had gotten significantly worse as the average temperature soared due to the effects of global warming. This rise in temperature resulted in the formation of large farming conglomerates, known as agribusinesses, whose sole purpose was to buy up large tracts of desolate wasteland, at bargain prices, and then, at great expense to them, develop and install underground irrigation systems. These systems provided ample water, via desalinization of seawater, to the plant roots without the loss of crops by evaporation or sunburn from water droplets sitting on the plant leaves. It turned out to be a relatively profitable system, bringing in vast amounts of capital, keeping Texas in the pack of food-producing regions.

Despite the profitability of these agribusinesses and the seemingly increased standard of living, not all of Texas's twenty million strong population were happy with the state of affairs. The cessation from the Union, though relatively popular, was not accepted by all of the population and armed resistance groups had developed in protest. One such group, and perhaps the largest, was the Texas-American League of which Dallas was a member.

Walking toward the ruins of a pier at the northern end of the beach, Winston stopped and raised the binoculars to his eyes once again, this time scanning the incoming waves. Satisfied that he was alone, but also concerned that dawn was rapidly approaching, Winston continued his hunched shuffle along the beach. When he reached the rotted remains of the pier he walked underneath and checked the other side, his hand resting on the pistol grip of the South African manufactured Mechem BXP 9mm sub-machine gun hidden under the bulkiness of his jacket. The SMG was part of an arm's shipment sent from the Republic of South Africa, which included Vektor CR- 21, R-4 and R-5 assault rifles as well as heavy machineguns and mortars, to arm mercenary forces now fighting in Texas. Slipping the BXP from under his jacket he walked back under the pier and up the incline of the beach to check the small recesses where the wooden structure had broken away from its concrete foundations. For the next fifteen minutes Winston methodically checked every part of the structure to make sure a vagrant had not decided to make his home in the area. He had picked this particular landing zone because of its isolation and as such it was his responsibility to make sure there were no surprises.

Winston checked his watch while the wind whistled through the rotted, tangled web of wooden pylons that had at one time supported the pier. Everything was going according to schedule. He had been waiting for almost five years of his life to strike a blow against the secessionist government, including the two years of compulsory military service where he had learnt about weapons handling, unarmed combat and explosives, and he was not about to mess it up now.

Mike Dorjan held a pair of night-vision goggles to his eyes and tried in vain to search the distant shoreline for their pre-assigned landing zone. Despite the fact that they were only a few hundred feet offshore, the pre-dawn fog had gradually thickened dramatically limiting visibility. It didn't help that the small rubber zodiac that he and his team were traveling in was being continually thrashed in and out of the choppy swell, which made it all but impossible to hold the goggles steady on the one spot. Just when he thought he had the right area framed the boat would dramatically shift direction under his feet and he'd end up looking into the back of a wave ten feet in front of him.

Securing the night-vision goggles in their waterproof case, Dorjan retrieved the earpiece for his secure Motorola MX500 radio from under the neck of his dry suit and cupped it next to his right ear. The radio was already pre-tuned to the frequency contained in the orders he had received prior to boarding the Toledo and was ready to transmit at the touch of a button. Above the din of the water and the wind, he shouted. 'Diamondback, this is Rattler Five Zero. Do you copy? Over.' Dorjan's throat mike picked up his words; in actual fact it just picked up the vibrations of his vocal chords, and transmitted them across the airwaves.

After several moments delay, the crackled response finally came via his earpiece. 'Rattler Five Zero, this is Diamondback. I read you loud and clear. Over.'

Thankful that their contact was in place, he turned his back to the wind in an effort to hear better, and spoke once again. 'We are in position, Diamondback, at waypoint Omega. What is the status of the Landing Zone? Over.'

'Everything is secure on this end, Rattler.'

'Roger that, Diamondback! We'll see you in about five minutes. Over.' Dorjan pulled at the neck of his scuba suit and stuffed the earpiece back under the protective surface of neoprene. Turning to his men he gave a quick thumbs up, indicating that things were proceeding as scheduled. 'Grab you gear, lets move. Time to get wet.'

Each man quickly checked his own swim pack then the person nearest them, before sliding the mouthpiece of their oxygen tanks between their lips and positioning their dive masks into place over their eyes. When he received thumbs up from each man Dorjan gave the order to go over the sides. Once in the water, each man withdrew a dive knife from a sheath on their lower legs and punctured the sides of the rubber boat. Musty air instantly begun to hiss free from the punctured areas, and after several seconds, the weight of the motor began to pull the rapidly deflating craft under the water and to the bottom.

Seeing the landing zone from the relative stability of the rubber boat had been difficult enough task. Trying to see it from the water, with waves rising and falling all around them was proving futile. The team used their GPS Navigational units to take a final compass reading before Dorjan ordered Duraid Charon, the most proficient swimmer in the group, to take the lead. The five commandos swam in a tight single file formation, checking their headings as they went along. After several minutes of fairly harsh swimming they finally neared the pier. Now, with Dorjan swimming forward and taking the lead, they maneuvered around to the southern side of the structure and lined up to catch a wave into shore. In unison the commandos rode the wave in on their bellies until, one by one, they reached a kneeling depth. After a quick head count they quickly emerged from the water and made their way towards the relative safety of the pier.

Without waiting to be ordered each commando quickly retrieved their Fabrique Nationale P-90 SMG's from his or her waterproof packs and moved into defensive cover positions. Attached to the threaded barrel of each of the futuristic-looking weapons was a thick, black water-technology sound suppressor that made the weapons extremely quiet when fired, especially when loaded with sub-sonic ammunition. Two of the commandos crawled to the piers northern side, two stayed on the southern side, and Dorjan moved up the middle. Each man staying right on the edge of the surf line.

Behind them the waves continued to pound the beach - a clamouring symphony of thunderous echoes that reverberated throughout the tangled maze of the pier. The surf raced up the beach engulfing all of Dorjan except for his weapon and head. Dorjan looked around the right hand side of a barnacle- encrusted pylon and studied the wooden labyrinth before him. All around him the frothing water subsided in a momentary retreat, only to be replaced again seconds later by another wave. The roar of the incoming surf and the howling of the wind made listening difficult. As Dorjan looked in and around the maze of wooden supports, the commando heard a faint whistle, followed seconds later by another slightly louder whistle. Then, about thirty feet, a man dressed in faded jeans and a desert camouflage jacket stepped from behind one of the supports and waved. Dorjan, and one of the other commandos, spotted the new arrival and swung the barrels of their P- 90's toward him, keeping the thick black suppressor of their submachine guns aimed squarely at the man's torso, ready to open fire at the slightest sign of danger.

Dallas Winston continued his approach at a more cautious pace, keeping his arms extended out to the side, palms facing the incoming waves. The Mechem submachine gun he carried was now slung across the front of his body in plain view of the commandos, his eyes locked on the barrel of Dorjan's weapon. In a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the crashing of the surf, he said 'Comoros '95. Dogs of War.'

Taking his eyes off Winston for a brief moment Dorjan checked the areas to his left and right. Then rising to one knee, he lowered the barrel of the P-90 slight and extended his right hand. 'It's good to see you,'

'We don't have a lot of time to screw around with formalities, Rattler,' Winston said, briefly shaking Dorjan's hand. 'So lets get you and your men out of the water, into some dry clothing and lets roll.'

Dorjan rose to his feet, whistled and signaled for his team to follow. So far he was impressed with the way their contact was conducting himself. The identification code he used referred to a mercenary incident that had taken place on the tiny island nation of Comoros in September 1995, when Bob Denard, the famous French mercenary and his 'dogs of war' had seized control of the islands and their inhabitants. For seven days they ruled the small island nation, before French Special Forces restored order and removed the mercenaries.

Once Dorjan's team had gathered together Winston lead the five commandos up the beach and into the dark recesses of the pier, where they were hidden from any undetected observants. While they changed clothing Winston made his way back down to the surf line, it was his job once again to post security for the LZ. Each of the commandos quickly stripped away their wetsuits, folding them in half and then half again, before dumping them into a whole Winston had already dug for such a purpose. They then pulled civilian clothes from their swim packs and commenced changing. Within minutes they were dressed, rearmed, and ready to move out.

On an unspoken command from Dorjan, Winston pulled the group into a tight circle. As a cell commander for the Texas-American League he had had access, via a secure internet link up, to each of the commando's dossiers and greeted each one individually. Dorjan had bought along four of his best operators, each having gone through Special Forces training, and had operated extensively in some of the world's most dangerous environments. Directly to Winston's left was Carl Rennick, a big brute of a man that weighed around two hundred seventy five pounds.

Because of his build Rennick had been a natural choice as the teams Heavy Weapons specialist, and was more comfortable carrying his favourite weapon, the Belgian manufactured M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon, than he was with the P-90 SMG. Next to Rennick were Duraid Charon and David Stoner. Both were of medium build and were the explosives experts for the team. Stoner, a former member of Australia's elite Special Air Service regiment prior to getting married and immigrating to America, also served as Dorjan's second in command, or 2IC.

The last member, but my no means the least, was Janyce Dylan. A native of Norfolk, Virginia and one of the few women to have past through the Navy's elite SEAL training course, Janyce could climb, slither and, armed with her favourite Heckler & Koch MSG-90 sniper rifle, shoot better than anyone Dorjan had ever met in the Special Operations community. She was among the best snipers in the business, and with that came a strange, almost morbid fascination and respect from her fellow commandos. After all, their survival instincts told them that it was not a good idea to get on the wrong side of a person who, with the right weapon, could put a bullet into your skull at a thousand yards.

Dropping to one knee Winston removed a map from one of his pocket and laid it on the sand, showing the commandos the location of where he parked their transport. 'Any questions?' he finally asked. Each commando responded with a simple shake of their head. Winston nodded and looked over towards Dorjan. 'Good. Rattler, let's get things rolling.'

'You heard the man, Janyce,' Dorjan said looking to his left. 'I want you to hit the road first. Scout ahead.' Then with a jerk of his thumb he added. 'Get moving.'

The wiry sniper quickly rose to her feet and, after making sure that the immediate area was clear, left the group without saying a word. Two minutes later Rennick and Charon moved out, Rennick pausing momentarily to give a mock salute. A further two minutes passed before Dorjan, Winston and Stoner made their way out from under the tangled wooden structure.