Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  “Sorry, Commander. Just tired I guess.”

  “Maybe I should wait tables more often.” Phillips smiled at Kate.

  Everyone stood awkwardly not knowing what to do or say. Everyone except Thuy, who approached Phillips with a broad smile.

  “Commander, would you like to join us? Please, sit. Sit, please.”

  He offered his chair to Phillips. It was next to Kate’s. Thuy didn’t miss much, and moved to the opposite side of the table, elbowing Jimmy, and whispered, “sit!” Thuy was around the table before Kate could approach her seat, and pulled it out for her like a well-trained maître’d, just in case Kate got cold feet and tried to distance herself from the Commander.

  Jimmy broke the silence.

  “Uh, my apologies and congratulations, Admiral. Um. I’m clairvoyant, you know. Runs in the family. Seventh son of a seventh son. I wasn’t just being a smart ass with all my Admiral comments. I was predicting the future.”

  “Jimmy, you have one sister, and no uncles.” Kate was regaining her composure. Thuy was pleased.

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Falcone. Insanity often skips a generation from time to time. As a matter of fact, We’ve been trying to breed the idiots out of my family for generations. We get so darn close, then BAM. They’re back.” Phillips countered. Jimmy wasn’t the only person at the table with a wit.

  “You really Admiral? Thuy asked.

  “As of two hours ago, yes The Navy Secretary provided the bling I’m now wearing. That’s him at my other table.”

  “Oh, we’re so sorry for interrupting, Admiral. You should return to the Secretary’s table. That’s more important.” Kate offered.

  “Funny. That’s exactly what the Secretary said to me when he spotted you three entering the club. Something about the Bayboro Four Reunion. Remember he was there when we started this operation. Kate, I’m exactly where I want to be right now. And my name is Steve when I’m off duty.”

  “Okay. Steve it is.” Kate looked into his eyes, and he into hers.”

  “Anyone want food? Order, yes? Ready?” Thuy drew attention away from the couple, and signaled the real server. Beth rejoined them, taking a new seat.

  “I am. I’m starving.” Beth added.

  “I was born ready.” Jimmy replied. “I could eat the rear end out of a road kill polecat.”

  “Look for it on menu.” Thuy shoved a menu into Jimmy’s stomach. Turning towards the Commander.

  “Why you here in Key West, Admiral Steve?”

  “I’m here to assist you. Last week I asked Mr. Falcone to find two men. He has done so. When I was a boy growing up in southwest Ohio, I loved the Fall. It was the time of year when my father would take leave from the Navy, and take me hunting.” He paused and looked to each person seated at the table, finally coming to rest on Kate.

  “So, let’s go hunting.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tractor Barn, I-77 Southeast of San Antonio

  Hector’s plan was simple yet deadly.

  “My friends, this ends today. You have one hour to get into position. Approach the barn under cover through the grass. Each of you are assigned one side of the barn. Close to within 20 yards, and await my signal.” Hector said. “ Move.”

  The soldiers broke and made for the thigh high grass lining the highway, and leading all the way to the barn, 200 yards in the distance. They crawled single file up to the wire fence separating the interstate from the fields, cut their way through, then fanned out towards their assigned positions.

  Hector crawled on his hands and knees through the grass, checking his watch. His hands were protected by leather gloves, his knees with knee pads. The first 150 yards were crossed relatively quickly. There was a steady breeze from the southwest the roiled through the grass, moving the stalks like waves on the ocean. From that distance, and with the wind, their movements and noise would be impossible to detect. The last 50 yards was a different story.

  His pace slowed to that of a snail. He could not belly crawl. That would leave a trail of crushed grass a child could follow. Still on his hands and knees, he moved through the stalks of tall grass attempting to slide his body around the clumps without unduly moving them. The breeze helped, but patience, and painstakingly slow movement was more important. A stealth approach through grass like this required no faster pace than ten feet in ten minutes, and that was twice as fast for true stealth. His pace was set by approaching dusk. They had no night vision equipment. This fight must end before darkness descended.

  He was within 25 yards, as he crept forward. Suddenly, he came across a fallen log in the field. The branches had long ago rotted off. Grasslands and forest are constantly at war with each other for supremacy. Where the forest grows, the grass dies, starved of sunlight. Where the grass grows, tree seedlings are choked by faster growing grass, and die.

  The grass was reclaiming its territory from the log, smothering and covering it to speed its decay. It was three yards short of the 20 yards, but close enough. It would present a good platform to steady his rifle. Hector glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until show time. His radio clicked once. Juan was in place on the south. Some minutes passed. His radio clicked twice. Guillermo was in place on the east. Carlos with the M-60 was the final piece of the puzzle. He would close the trap from the higher ground north of the barn, and facing the doors. He would position just south of the tree line. Alejandro would position to cut off the highway.

  Miguel rested his head on a bale of heroin, stretched out on the dusty floor of the barn. Blue flies buzzed the air, diving towards him at intervals. Flies searched for anything alive they could bite to get a precious drop of blood, enabling them to mate successfully. Miguel was dinner tonight.

  He rocked back onto his shoulders, bringing his knees to his chest, and launched himself to a standing position, exciting the flies. He pointed his 9MM at the buzzing pests in a two hand grip, pretending to shoot them out of the air. This new game soon grew old.

  “I am so bored! Boooored! Luis, where are you?” he shouted to the rafters.

  Luis had left hours ago to search for a new vehicle. The plan called for driving the ambulance casually into San Antonio from the direction of the evacuation. They would be virtually invisible. That was no longer possible. The ambulance had survived the gun battle and explosion that took out the chopper, and had held together for twelve miles before small punctures in the radiator crippled the vehicle’s engine. It now resembled a target vehicle from a shooting range, peppered with bullet holes and jagged shrapnel. It’s a miracle it made it into the barn. Now, it had been three hours, and no Luis.

  He wandered towards the open barn doors that faced away from the highway, swinging his pistol like a fly swatter. The open doors were the only source of fresh air. A nice breeze entered the opening. He gazed at the clouds, then toward the tractor path entering the trees where Luis had disappeared in his quest for transportation.

  “Ha! When I get to San Antonio, I will get a bottle of tequila, and a senorita. Maybe two! I will stay drunk for a week!” he thought.

  Miguel, for all his sins and vices, had a rule. He never partook of the drugs he sold and smuggled. He preferred to keep a clear mind. It was his edge. His mind was always working, thinking, scheming. And his mind drove him crazy with no activity. He was the opposite of a patient man. He wandered, sat, and stood. He sang his favorite songs, and whistled others. He invented games, creating a race between two ants, betting on which would escape the ring of fire he created with straw he lit with his lighter.

  Bored with burning insects, he paced outside the barn. Luis had warned him many times to stay inside. He scoffed to himself, and thought, “Luis, you work for me, not the other way around!” The sun was starting to set in the west. He puffed out his chest, and swaggered a few paces outside the barn entrance.

  Suddenly, the hand held radio on the stacks of heroin bales clicked twice. Miguel whirled around, and quick walked to grab the radio. He listened, but no voice came through. Lu
is wants me to be quiet. He held the radio to his lips, and whispered.

  “Yes?” he whispered.

  “Get out now. Belly crawl with the sun on your left shoulder into the tall grass, cover yourself and lie still. You are almost surrounded.”

  Dirt Road, North of I-77, South Texas

  Luis was elated. At the third farmhouse, he at last located an old Ford pick-up. He had been searching for three hours, and was now a good three miles from the tractor path that emerged onto a dirt road from the barn and Miguel. The road paralleled the highway, and served as access to scattered farms.

  The truck was the perfect score. An aluminum frame covered with canvas had been installed over the truck bed, creating a covered wagon effect. Luis opened the driver’s door, and tilted the visor. The keys fell into his lap. So far, so good. Inserting the keys into the ignitions, he tried to start the old truck. The engine turned over, but would not engage. After the third attempt, he stopped. It would be no good to them if the battery was drained. He tapped the glass over the fuel gauge, and watched the red indicator bar fall to empty. No gas.

  Exiting the truck, he began to search the grounds for fuel. There were no other vehicles in sight, nor had there been on the previously visited farms. All had been used for the evacuation. The garage and yard yielded nothing. Finally, he found a rickety shed behind the main house, and pried the squeaky door open. Several mowers in various stages of disassembly lay scattered about, along with a 5-gallon red plastic gas can. Hoisting the can, it was just below half full.

  Before leaving the shed, Luis cut a four-foot length from a garden hose, and located a rusty funnel. Returning to the truck, he used the funnel to pour just over two gallons into the tank. He threw the hose and funnel into the truck bed, and climbed into the cab. The engine started on the first try. Luis drove the truck to the dirt road, turned left and headed back to the tractor path and Miguel.

  It had taken Luis three hours walking and searching to locate the truck three miles up the road. He took him just minutes to return, driving slowly to minimize dust from his passing. As he neared his objective, he slowed further, searching for the marker he had constructed showing the mouth of the tractor path. There. Three small stones stacked atop each other, not noticeable to the casual eye, but clear signage to one who looked.

  Luis guided the truck onto the tractor path, twenty yards into the trees, and cut the engine. Climbing out with his rifle, he gently closed the driver’s door to eliminate noise, and started down the path. The barn was 100 yards through the trees. He walked silently, and slowly, eyes scanning the trees and brush on both sides. Twenty yards from the edge where the path opened onto the grassy field, he moved to his right, and sank to all fours. He quietly crawled to within 2 yards of the tree’s edge, and paused. He could clearly see Miguel kneeling just inside the barn, his attention on a small fire made of straw.

  “What are you doing, my friend?” he whispered to himself.

  He pulled back a few feet, and cut limbs from the bushes. He stuffed the base of the limbs into the front of his belt, their leaves encircling his chest and face. He carefully and slowly inched forward and around a large tree, and rose to a sitting position. His back to the tree masked his silhouette, his front concealed with cut brush, he could clearly see the barn and surrounding grassland between the leaves.

  Luis began his vigil. First, he watched Miguel, pacing and shuffling, the picture postcard of impatience. This was Miguel’s one flaw. He simply could not remain still.

  “I will be your eyes, and ears Don Miguel, but you need to cooperate, please. Sit and be quiet.” He whispered to himself.

  Miguel remained captivated by his ring of straw fire. Good.

  Every environment has its own rhythm. An old house will creak and settle, the wind will brush branches against windows. These are the natural sounds and rhythm of that time and place. Luis searched for the natural rhythm of the tree line and field, as he was trained to do. Sergeant Gonzales was a tyrant in training, but his lessons were invaluable. Luis was living proof. A man afraid imagined every sound was danger, when in reality, they were figments of his imagination. Luis was unafraid. He began to relax his mind. He focused on nothing, and became aware of everything. He emptied his mind of anticipation, and expectations. He felt rather than heard the wind in the grass, the flap of bird’s wings, a mouse searching for seeds beneath the leaf clutter 10 yards away. Keeping his head still, he moved his eyes, and tuned his ears. He was a stone witnessing the cadence, taking in the rhythm of the place. Luis became aware.

  The wind died as the sun sank to the horizon, causing the temperature to begin to drop, and the air to become more still. The grass, once undulating like waves on the ocean, now calmed. The stalks moving to and fro, swayed like concert goers to a love song.

  There. The grass jerked unnaturally. Wait. Wait. There again, 20 yards west of the barn. This land was home to coyote, armadillo, and bobcat, none of which carried an assault rifle. To the untrained, it may have been a funny looking stick. To Luis, it was the unmistakable muzzle brake and front ramped sights of an M4 sticking out but a few inches. “You will not be alone.” He thought.

  Luis moved his eyes, scanning all around the barn to the east, looking for anything that disturbed the ebb and flow of the field. He focused on nothing, allowing sound or movement to come to him rather than seek it out. A clump of grass twitched, on the opposite side about twenty yards from the barn. The odds of a coyote looking for a meal approaching from the east, and a soldier looking to kill approaching from the west at the same instance was too great.

  “Sergeant Snake is here.” Luis thought. He knew there will be at least two more, one covering escape to the highway, another an escape attempt towards the tree line in which he sat. He must react quickly. They are almost upon us. He reached for his radio, and clicked twice.

  Tractor Barn, I-77 Southeast of San Antonio

  Miguel almost panicked. Almost. He ran to the edge of the barn door, and peered out. He saw nothing because he didn’t know what he was looking for. It didn’t matter. He knew he must do what Luis commanded. His Glock in his right hand, he dropped to the dirt and scampered like a crab towards the tall grass 10 yards away His heart threatened to burst from his chest. It seemed like a mile before he reached the grass, expecting automatic fire to thump into his body at any moment. At last he reached the tall stalks, pushed his way through for five yards, then stopped, lying as still as his adrenaline would allow. Abruptly, he pulled clumps of grass from the ground to cover his body, realized he was on his back, flipped to his stomach and covered himself a second time. He cringed at the noise he made.

  Luis set the radio aside. A soldier had suddenly appeared directly to his front, not ten yards away. He had seen or heard nothing of his approach. A fold in the land had successfully concealed him until the moment he raised his head to get a fix on the barn. He recognized Carlos by his size. Thankfully, Miguel had made his escape from the barn into the grass mere seconds before Carlos appeared. Luis smiled to himself. Escape was a premature word for this situation.

  Carlos had dragged an M-60 machine gun and ammo can silently through the grass. Amazing. Now, he opened the can, pulled out the belted ammunition, and fed it into the receiver of the weapon. The receiver closed with an audible click, the first noise he had heard from Carlos.

  “You are a worthy opponent, my friend.” Luis whispered to himself. “Now, I must spoil your plans.”

  Luis reached for his Glock and a large metal cylinder from his pocket. He screwed the silencer onto the threaded barrel. The workmanship was suburb, the best the Cartel’s gunsmith’s could provide. The word silencer is a misnomer. Suppressor more aptly described what the cylinder could do. With a suppressor, a 9MM round would make a sound that could be heard from 40 yards away, not as an explosive crack, but more as a sharp and crisp whoosh. Both soldiers in the grass east and west of the barn would hear it, and understand immediately what it was. He had to take out Carlos, and one of t
he remaining two soldiers this side of the highway quickly. The soldier nearest the highway would hear nothing. He decided the west soldier was closer to Miguel’s pitiful position, and therefore would be his second target after Carlos.

  Luis brought his knees up slowly, creating three points of contact to steady his weapon: his shoulders against the tree, his feet on the ground, and his knees as a shooting platform. Carefully, he captured the front sight, then aligned the rear sights. His point of aim just below the helmet’s rear rim where the spine met Carlos’ skull. He squeezed the trigger. His first weapon’s instructor told him proper trigger control was when the shot fired came as a surprise. He was wrong. If you practiced enough with your weapons, the shooter knew exactly the moment the trigger would trip the hammer, firing the round. Luis was well practiced.

  Luis shot would have surprised Carlos had he heard it, but the round cleaved his spine and killed him instantly. He remained upright, his chin dropped to rest on his chest. Luis immediately swung his weapon to a point in the grass 30 inches behind the protruding muzzle of the A4 rifle and fired. His second shot was greeted by a grunt of pain from the soldier to the west.