Family Matters

by Robert Ullrich

“Double time, Ribs,” said Young Bear, an inside joke with the team. Elijah could walk faster than half the team could trot. Craig broke into one as Mumphord strode by. “Long-legged freakin’ son of a…” Craig muttered under his breath as he caught up. Elijah acknowledged with a wink.

  “Ain’t my fault you got short parents,” said Mumphord. They were at the MI-35 in ten minutes; airborne in fifteen.

  *****

  Ricardo stopped the Prius five feet from what looked like a steel-plated wall. The road ended there. Camacho climbed out, heading to his right. He pulled open what looked like a standard 4-inch junction box. Inside was a keypad and print scanner. Camacho punched in a 12-digit number before putting his right thumb on the pad.

  Dust dropped from the wall as two large electric motors whined to life. The seemingly seamless wall parted in the middle, swinging out like a set of automatic doors at the mall. These doors weighed over a ton each. The hinges squealed in protest as the motors swung the doors open.

  “Let’s go, Ricardo,” said Camacho as he took off running to the opening. Ricardo was right on his heels by the time he cleared them. The massive rock-covered doors began to close within seconds.

  “That’s why we ran, Ricardo. There is an infrared beam we broke as we exited which triggers the closing.”

  Ricardo nodded as he motioned Camacho to the waiting Huey.

  “Mr. Clark,” said Camacho. “It is very good to see you. Have you been waiting long?”

  “No, sir,” said Clark. “I set down less than 5 minutes ago.” He pulled back on the collective as he opened the throttle, moving them in well-practiced unison. A lost art-form with more modern helicopters where the throttle is linked by a governor to the collective. The Huey came off the ground and the nose dropped as Clark accelerated into the air. He stayed low, hugging the terrain; heading west through an adjacent canyon.

  The Huey had been airborne ten minutes when the MI-35 came in hot from the north, flying directly across the Huey’s heading, no more than fifty feet above. The rotor-wash buffeted the old Huey. Clark swore under his breath as he fought the turbulence. He knew they were coming, he just didn’t know how.

  Camacho pounded on the dash. “Who the fuck is that?” he demanded.

  To his credit, Clark didn’t miss a beat. “That, Hefe, is your ticket out of here.”

  “You, Mr. Clark, are supposed to be my ticket out. What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “Hefe,” said Clark. “This old bird ain’t got the range we need to get out of these mountains. That is a Russian-built MI-35. It is one of the finest choppers in the world. It has twice the range of this old rust-bucket and enough fire-power to wipe out a small village. I had to make the call. I couldn’t get hold of you and I sure as shit don’t want to get caught by that damn AC-130. Its top speed is about triple mine, hell, maybe more. It will only be a matter of time before they come looking for us, if they haven’t already.”

  Camacho didn’t know what to make of it. He looked at Ricardo.

  “Hefe, it sounds right to me,” he said. “Clark knows his business and has always taken care of us. If he says the other chopper is better, I’d want to be on it.”

  “Okay,” said Camacho. “Let’s get this done. The sooner the better.”

  “Yes, sir, Hefe,” said Clark. “We have a rendezvous point twenty miles west of here. The MI-35 will be there when we arrive. The pilot is good. Former British Air Force; three tours in the middle east. Quiet though. I hear he doesn’t waste words.”

  “Fine by me,” said Camacho. “I’m not looking for conversation. He had better be as good as you say, or you will pay with your life.”

  “He’s better,” said Clark through gritted teeth. It was all he could do to not lash out at the smug drug lord. If there’d been any doubts about whose side he’d rather be on, they dissipated with the threat. He knew the Chameleon could be ruthless. He also knew the only reason he was alive was because that ruthless killer gave him a second chance.

  *****

  “Give ‘em one more shellackin’ and we’ll call this here a job well done,” said Lazarus to the crew.

  Five minutes later, the aerial assault resumed resulting in four major landslides as the remainder of the compound imploded. Eno pulled the AC-130 out of the pylon turn, executing a diving bank to a heading of 10 degrees, dropping down to 150 feet off the deck bound for Fort Bliss.

  “Red – Gusto here,”

  “Hey, pardner,” answered Lazarus. “What kin I do fer ya?”

  “I’m curious about something.”

  “Ask away, bubba.”

  “Did you plan on picking up Shooter and me any time soon?”

  “Well now, Gooo-stow, that’s a damn fine question,” said Lazarus, a serious tone in his voice. “That there is a bit of a problem, don’t ya think?”

  “Well, yes, I guess so, since you are headed north, and we are still here, keeping close watch on the smoldering ruins of the cartel compound. Also, there is no place to land such a plane in these mountains. So, yes, that’s what I call a pretty big fucking problem, mein redneck freund.”

  “Yep, yer right about that one. Ya’ll are pretty much fucked on the ride back. I gotta apologize to ya both. I kinda sorta forgot about how ya’ll was gonna git back. I’ll holler atcha in five.”

  All the crew burst out laughing when Lazarus broke off contact with Reichart. “Seriously?” asked LJ. “You forgot? That’s a pretty big oops there, big guy.”

  “Screw yerself, LJ,” said Lazarus with a sarcastic drawl. “Shit happens ya know.”

  Lazarus wasn’t reflecting how angry he was with himself. Leaving two men in the field was simply unacceptable. It brought home how fast he was moving – and how incomplete some of his plans were.

  “Gunny, you gotta copy?” asked Lazarus.

  “Roger that, Red.”

  “I got me a bit of a sitchiation here,” said Lazarus.

  “Gusto and Shooter – am I right?” asked Craig.

  “Yep. That’s my problem. I forgot them boys. Ain’t no excuse for it. I fucked up.”

  “I got you covered, Red. Once we pick up Camacho, I’ll send Clark back to get them. He’ll have plenty of fuel, and there’s a pretty flat spot close to them. I re-conned the area when we dropped them off. I was pretty sure there was no way that gunship could get to them.”

  “Damn, Gunny,” said Lazarus. “I ‘preciate the hell outta ya for this. I owe ya, big-time.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out – maybe 6 months of breakfast at Charros on you.”

  “That’s damn sure doable, Gunny,” said Lazarus. “I reckon I owe it to them two boys, too.”

  Young Bear let out what could have been a laugh, it was hard to tell. “Nope. Those meals are all for me and Mr. Black, after he’s back on his feet.”

  “Fair enough. I jest hope yer right about that boy gittin’ his legs back under him.”

  “He was a Navy Seal team-leader. Not as good as Marine re-con, but not bad, either. I’m bettin’ he’s stubborn enough to pull it off.”

  “I sure as hell hope yer right, Gunny. Tell Clark to holler at me when he gits ‘em airborne.”

  “Copy that – out.”

  *****

  Young Bear spotted the Huey about two miles out – hugging the ground. Mumphord had already found a good position twenty-five yards to the south of the MI-35. He was down under some brush between two fair-sized boulders – completely in the shade. You’d be hard pressed to see him if you knew where to look.

  Gunny’s radio squawked twice. “I got eyes on you, Clark. You’re heading straight at me.”

  “Good to know. That chopper blends in pretty well with the terrain and colors.”

  “I’m about 1-mile dead ahead; little patch surrounded by rocks and Mesquite.”

  Clark stayed silent for 20 seconds. “Bingo. I’ve got eyes on you. Coming in heavy.”

  Mumphord signaled he’d heard the code phrase.

  “What do you
mean, coming in heavy?” asked Ricardo – not Camacho.

  “I got two 100-gallon tanks of fuel under this bird. I need extra clearance, I don’t want to knock one off and blow our asses up landing on rough terrain.”

  “Makes sense,” said Ricardo. “I really don’t want to get my ass blown up, not after all the shit I’ve been through today. I’m sure El Hefe would agree.”

  Camacho grunted his confirmation. “Take it as easy as you need, Clark.”

  “Not a problem. This ain’t my first heavy landing you know.” Clark allowed a faint smile. The ruse had worked as planned.

  Clark circled the MI-35 twice before approaching from down-wind. He put the Huey in a hover about 10 feet off the ground. He called Young Bear to reinforce the deception. “Anything under me that could cause an issue with the extra tanks?”

  “Negative. You’re good right there. Bring her in.”

  Clark made a show of slowly setting the chopper down. He was enjoying himself. He would never see Camacho again, and that made for a damn good day. He cut the engine and the rotor began to decelerate.

  Ricardo got out first; an AK-47 hung over his shoulder, his hand on the grip and his finger on the trigger guard. Mumphord zeroed in on Ricardo’s head, breathing slowly.

  Clark climbed out behind Camacho. “It’s all good, Ricardo,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re safe for now.”

  Spencer nodded and relaxed, letting the barrel drop down as he released the grip.

  Gunny stood by the MI-35, arms folded across his chest – no weapon visible. “I was expecting one passenger,” he stated flatly.

  Camacho answered. “You’ve got two. Is that a problem?” he snarled.

  Craig stared emotionlessly at Camacho. “Not if he’s got money for a ticket. No one rides for free.”

  Camacho stopped and opened the bag he was rolling behind him. He tossed a wrapped bundle of bills at Craig, who caught it without breaking eye-contact. He slipped the money in his cargo pants without looking at it.

  “You must be pretty trusting,” said Camacho. “You aren’t even going to see how much it was?”

  “Don’t need to. You need me to get out, so I’m guessing it was 10 thousand in hundred-dollar bills.”

  Camacho grunted. “You would be correct.”

  Craig whistled. All three of the others flinched when Elijah came out from under the cover.

  “It’s all good, gentlemen. He’s my insurance coverage for the ride, paid from my cut. No offense, but I like to have a little added security at a time like this.”

  “Mr. Clark, if you would join me. I believe you have something for me.”

  “I do. It’s in the Huey, I’ll go get it.”

  “I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.” Craig started towards the Huey without waiting for an answer. With Elijah standing there, no one felt like questioning him.

  Clark reached under the rear seat and brought out a small briefcase. Craig popped it open, then nodded his head as though in agreement. There was nothing in the case but old newspapers.

  Gunny thumbed through the paper – no one could see what was in there but Clark. “I have a request from your new boss.”

  Clark looked a little confused, but simply nodded.

  “You need to pick up two men. They will be 300 yards east of the old side entrance across the canyon. They need a ride to El Paso.”

  “Will do,” was all Clark said. Craig believed him.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he approached, briefcase in hand. “Saddle up.”

  Elijah led Camacho and Spencer around the rear of the chopper to the ramp. There were four jump-seats. Elijah took both on the right side. Camacho and Spencer settled in the other two. “Bring up the ramp,” he said into his com link. A motor sparked to life and the ramp lifted, sealing the back.

  Five minutes later, Clark lifted straight up before turning back east. Young Bear lifted off right behind him and pointed the chopper northwest.

  “Gentlemen,” he said over the on-board system. “We have about two hours of flight time to our destination. There’s food and drinks in the back. Help yourselves.”

  Mumphord slid a large Yeti cooler over. Camacho opened it to find twelve Tecate beers on ice, and several tacos in the tray. “The tacos are cold, but I figured you wouldn’t mind with the beer and all,” said Elijah.

  “Not one damn bit,” said Camacho pulling out two bottles and handing one to Ricardo. He tossed a couple of tacos at him as well.

  Mumphord declined the offer of a beer. “I don’t drink,” he said. “but I will take two of those tacos.”

  Camacho tossed them over, leaned back in the jump-seat and drained his beer, grabbing another as he tosses the first in an empty box by the Yeti. Ricardo kept pace. When they spun the caps off their third each, Elijah pinched his lip hard, holding back a wicked grin.

  *****

  Sheffield heard the Huey before Reichart. Thirty-plus years as an explosive’s expert had taken more than a small toll on his hearing. “We’ve got company, Gustaf” said Sheffield. “Chopper – sounds like the Huey – coming in from the north.”

  Reichart spotted Clark as the Huey to their right as it flew over the smoldering remains of the thoroughly decimated compound. Clark swung out away from the canyon and approached from the east. It was daytime, and rising thermals can be a problem in mountain canyons. He cut the power as the bird settled on its skids.

  “Mr. Clark,” said Reichart. “It is good to see you again.” He extended his arms in a welcoming hug that Clark reluctantly accepted.

  “It’s good to see you too,” said Clark, “although I don’t know your names. I believe you were Gusto in the jungle and your partner here was referred to as Shooter.”

  “Sheffield, Thomas Sheffield,” said the sniper as he extended his hand. “My Teutonic friend here goes by the name of Gustaf Reichart.”

  “Sheffield, Reichart – got it,” said Clark. He turned his head, following Gustaf as he walked to the Huey. Reichart reached inside, leaning to his right. He looked back with something in his hand.

  Gustaf tossed it to Sheffield, who in turn, handed it to Clark. “Cell phone? Where the hell did this come…” he stopped mid-sentence as he turned the phone over. Electricians tape held a short wire lead and a detonator, commonly used with plastic explosives, to the back. The color drained from his face as his legs gave out. Sheffield caught him and lowered him to a sitting position on a nearby rock. He handed Clark a bottle of Gatorade like nothing was wrong.

  “This is a remote detonator,” said Clark numbly. “A cell-phone activated remote detonator from inside my chopper.” Sheffield took the bottle, twisted the cap off and handed it back. Clark took the bottle and long swig, turning head until he was looking Sheffield in the eye. He held out the detonator. Sheffield took it.

  “Yes, that is a remote detonator, Mr. Clark. I do apologize for not alerting you. I should have anticipated your reaction might not be positive.” Sheffield spoke calmly, his British accent making it sound less intimidating.

  “You think?” asked Gustaf of Sheffield as he wandered over. “Did you expect him to hug you when he found out?” Gustaf grinned broadly as he tossed a brick of C-4 to Clark. Clark dropped the drink and fumbled the catch – batting it up in the air four times before securing it.

  Gustaf could barely contain himself. “You may have a career as a juggler, Herr Clark.”

  Clark just sat there, holding the brick, staring at Reichart.

  Gustaf headed back to the Huey. As Sheffield and Clark watched, two-pound bricks of C-4 started flying out of the open door, one after another until the ground was littered with them.

  “H-h-how much goddamn C-4 was in there?” stuttered Clark.

  “Right about 40 pounds, give or take. Does that sound right Gustaf?” asked Sheffield.

  “Forty-two to be precise.”

  “W-w-why?” stuttered the still deeply disturbed pilot.

  “Try not to take it personal, ma
te,” said Sheffield. “We packed that in when you were walking in the jungle with the Chameleon.”

  “Okay, but why?” he asked again.

  Reichart answered. “Safety precaution, Herr Clark. In the event you failed to return as requested by the Chameleon, he would have given you a call at some point. Probably when you were in the air; less collateral damage that way.”

  Clark had finally slowed his breathing and was starting to calm down. “Forty-two pounds? Sounds like overkill to me.”

  Sheffield answered. “There was always the chance you might side with your old boss. In that case, we would have blown your chopper after he got in. All’s well that ends well, eh mate?” He clamped his hand on Clark’s left shoulder and gave it a shake and handed the detonator back to him.

  “I can’t argue with that,” said Clark. “I just never thought of it.”

  “Why would you?” asked Reichart. “We would have never thought of it either. It was the Chameleon who gave the order. He’s a very careful man.”

  “Jesus, I guess,” said Clark. “So, now what?”

  “Now, we have to retrieve the body at the bottom of the canyon. We cannot leave him lying there, it is too much of a question mark.”

  “I understand,” said Clark. “I’ll need one of you with me in case it’s too rough to set down.”

  Sheffield grabbed his rifle and headed to the chopper, Clark followed, the cell phone still in his hand. He turned and threw it out into the canyon before climbing in. Sheffield didn’t say a thing, and for once, neither did Reichart.

  Fifteen minutes later they were back on the ground, the broken remains of Tommy Huang in a body bag. Clark watched as Gustaf pulled the zipper back and put two pounds of C-4, along with Huang’s backpack in the body bag. He started to ask a question that never came. Clark figured it out.

  Twenty minutes after taking off, Gustaf drug the body-bag to the port door and let it drop. The bag rocked back and forth, catching the air as it fell. Clark was about to ask a question again when the C-4 detonated, consuming everything in a ball of fire and scattering the former Mr. Huang to the winds.

  “Altimeter,” said Gustaf.

  “Ah,” said Clark.

  “What?” asked Sheffield.