August 15th.
Clear skies.
Fucking Japanese surrendered, the 45th anniversary.
Sinaloa, "Topolobampo" town.
A National Guard convoy of about 30, fully armed, patrolled the town. Their mission was to maintain local order after the ground police forces had swept up the drug traffickers.
In this small town, about 100 National Guard officers were called in from the rear.
John Rambo stood on a Humvee, wearing a PASGT helmet, pinching an M249 machine gun, mounted at the front of the vehicle.
Despite the muscles on his body, he was visibly tense, being a rookie on his first "cross-border mission for stability operations."
John Rambo looked around; the civilians sitting by the side of the street watched them with horror, with women holding their children tightly and bowing their heads.
He looked up and saw the hanged body of a drug trafficker on a suspension bridge in the middle of the road.
