Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  Luis sprang to his feet, and raced ten yards to Carlos body, shoving it aside and grabbing up the M60. The soldier to the east was just reacting to the shots and sudden movement uphill. He had a bead on Luis with his M4, but changed his aim as Miguel suddenly leaped up, and ran for the trees. This fraction of indecision gave Luis all he needed. He raked the east soldier with automatic fire from the M60, churning chunks from the earth, and the hapless soldier. Turning, he tried to intercept Miguel’s panicked dash.

  “Miguel to me! Here! To me!” Luis stood and shouted.

  Hector had taken Luis shot in his left side, just above his belt. The round had struck the ancient log, losing much of its muzzle velocity, but retaining enough to slam him hard, with both a bullet and wood shards piercing his side. He rolled onto his back with the impact, but recovered quickly. The fight was on. Rising to his knees to look for the source of incoming fire, he spied Miguel racing towards Luis holding Carlos’ M-60. He brought his M4 up, and fired a burst towards the two, walking his fire onto the most threatening target. Luis body jumped and the M-60 spun as they both were riddled with bullets. Luis crumbled, and Miguel changed course like a jumped jackrabbit, heading straight into the trees. Hector swept his aim point onto Miguel’s back, but he had emptied his 30 round magazine taking down Luis. He was out of ammunition. His last glimpse was Miguel throwing himself into the trees, then disappearing.

  Alejandro came running around the barn from his position blocking the highway, and took in the scene, sweeping the tree line with his rifle for threats, and targets. There were none He jogged to his sergeant to render aid. Hector stood a head taller than Alejandro. He lay his rifle on the ground, then turned to the young private.

  “Check on Carlos and Guillermo, then report back, then watch the tree line.” Alejandro nodded curtly and took off.

  Hector sat on the log that had probably saved him from a mortal shot, and lifted his combat vest to examine his wound. He could tell it was shallow, with minimal blood loss, but hurt like the devil just the same. He removed a Leatherman tool from his vest, opening it to the configuration that revealed plyers, just when Alejandro returned.

  “Carlos and Guillermo are both dead. Luis still breathes, but not for long.” He reported. Hector continued pulling wood shards from his side. After three, he could not feel anymore sharp edges protruding from the wound area.

  “Alejandro, look into the wound. I cannot see into it.” Alejandro did as ordered

  “It is shallow, no more than the length of my thumb. I can see the bullet.”

  Hector handed him the plyers. “Remove it.”

  Alejandro looked reluctantly into his sergeant’s eyes. He would follow this man into the jaws of death, but sticking plyers into his side? This was something else.

  Hector reached for his shoulder, and grasped it lightly. “It is alright, Miho.” He smiled. “You have my permission. Make it quick.”

  His confidence restored, Alejandro opened the plyers a half inch, then plunged them into his sergeant’s side without hesitation. He pushed to a depth equal to the length of his thumb, squeezed the plyers closed around the bullet, and pulled it out. A small gush of blood followed, then the wound partially closed.

  Hector let out the long breath he had held during the procedure. “Take out your kit and dust the wound with the medical powder, then bind it with a dressing.”

  Alejandro did as ordered. There was very little bleeding.

  “Help me stand.” Hector extended his hand, and Alejandro pulled him to his feet. “Thank you Alejandro. You are a good soldier, and I need a new Corporal. Are you up to the task?”

  “Si, my Sergeant. I will not let you down.”

  “You never have. Now I must deal with someone who has.” Hector turned towards the hillside. “Stay here, guard the heroin.” He then turned towards the grassy hill, and Luis. His climb was not steep, and he purposely walked slow until he could assess his own wounds. Finally, he stood over a wheezing, and dying Luis. Hector’s eyes were cold, as Luis tried to focus on who stood over him. He recognized his old sergeant, and laughed.

  “My aim was true. You should be dead, Sergeant Gonzales. You cheat me.” Luis croaked.

  “The Madonna placed a log in the grass to save me from your evil, Luis. It seems the Devil is done protecting you.”

  “I served him well for a long time, yes?” Luis smiled revealing blood red teeth. He coughed violently, spitting more frothy blood.”

  “Yes, a long time. But your time has come to an end.”

  “You bore me sergeant. You have always bored me with your regulations and orders. You trained me to kill. That’s all I ever wanted to do. I found someone who encouraged me to kill, and rewarded me well. I would have been happy with just killing. The reward was icing on the cake.” Luis was dying, but not fast enough for Hector. Hector removed his sidearm, and aimed at Luis head.

  “What’s this?” Luis croaked and coughed. “You always stopped me from killing the wounded. You said it was God’s will to try and save their lives.”

  “God left Texas some time ago.” Hector pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dredger Key, Key West, Florida

  The Coast Guard over the years has developed interdiction techniques for boats attempting to drop, or pick up drugs from the beach. Add to that the knowledge of where and when Bobby Lee would be picked up made the operation merely a formality. The picker upper was already in custody and under their control. NCIS Agent, Chris was in the Billistic with Cyrus, hidden below the gunwales. Beth and three other agents were ashore on Dredger Key hidden in the dunes, awaiting Bobby Lee’s arrival, and Admiral Blakeley was true to his word. A Navy Chopper was warmed up and ready to lift off from Key West Naval Air Station, 2 minutes away. Thuy, Kate, Jimmy and Admiral Phillips waited five miles offshore in a coast guard quick boat, monitoring the takedown.

  Thuy stood just behind the helm, staring into the pre-dawn gloom straining to see the Billistic idling just off shore.

  “You’ve waited a long time for this day, haven’t you Thuy?” Kate joined him, taking his arm in hers.

  “Yes. Long time.”

  “Why did you make this your life’s work after you retired? Don’t you have a family?”

  “Had family once. I was young boy in Cambodia. They all die.”

  “I’m so sorry, Thuy. I didn’t know.”

  “Long time ago. Never speak of it, until now.” Thuy stared straight ahead.

  “What happened?” Kate’s recollection of the history of southeast Asia was limited.

  “Family live in village near Vietnam border. Happy village. Then Viet Minh come from north to build road through Cambodia. Hidden road. Build to bring supplies from north to Viet Cong fighting Americans in Mekong Delta.”

  “Did the North Vietnamese harm your family?”

  “Not at first. Americans harm family. Drop Agent Orange from sky to strip leaves from trees. Reveal trucks to American planes on hidden road. Drop bombs.” Thuy painfully recalled his youth.

  “Bombs miss village, but Agent Orange make all sick. Game leave forest. Fish die in rivers. Rice crop killed by defoliant. Village starve. After months, village decide move, but too late. Viet Minh pull out, say Americans coming. Most leave, but we stay. Think Americans save us. Sister and mother very sick from orange poison. Too weak to travel.” Thuy paused and wiped his eyes, then resumed.

  “Viet Minh leave traps for Americans to find. Helmets, flags, bugles scattered on trails. My sister young, six-year-old. She wander out on trail. See helmet she want to wear. Mother and father see her, run to try stop. They reach her and she pick up helmet. Then they all gone. Big boom. No more family.” Thuy looked down.

  “What happened to you? How old were you?”

  “Thuy look for family. Find nothing. Nothing. Just hole in ground. Thuy very tired. Very weak. Very lost. Lay down in hole to die. Wake to find American soldiers. I try warn them of helmets, flags and bugles. They no understand.
Bring Viet interpreter. I tell him, he tell them. Thuy not know at time, but my words buy ticket to America. Thuy nine-year old. So, here I am.” Thuy finished.

  Kate remained silent for a long time, holding Thuy’s arm as she quietly wept for her friend.

  “No cry for Thuy. No need for second family. I make life, become engineer. Go after men who poison water. Orange poison kill my family. I stop them.”

  “You are my family, Thuy”. Kate meant every word. “It’s a pretty screwed up family”. Kate smiled and sniffed. “I mean, a discredited research immunologist, a smartass reporter, and a Cambodian refugee turned engineer and environmental warrior. That’s pretty good, right?”

  “Don’t forget Admiral Steve.” Kate looked up, surprised by his honest remark. “Thuy see everything. Is good for you. Good for new family.”

  Kate was about to speak, when Jimmy broke in. “Hey, you two love birds, shake a leg. Sun’s coming up.”

  Thuy looked at Jimmy like an older brother ready to slap an impulsive stupid younger sibling across the head. Kate intervened. “Don’t mind him. He’s the family member everyone hopes won’t show up at Thanksgiving, but miss his weirdness when he’s not there.”

  With the dawn, the Billistic piloted by Cyrus made a run towards the salt pond inlet on Dredger Key. The dark shape and white foam at the bow easily followed from the swift boat. NCIS Chris used his radio to contact his counterpart ashore. Admiral Phillips and the quick boat team monitored the radio traffic.

  “Anything yet? Out.”

  “Nothing. No movement. Out.” Beth replied. All assumed Bobby Lee would be armed. Chris carried an M4 assault rifle, as did Beth and her shore team. The morning was foggy, and overcast, coloring everything a dull gray in the early light. Just as the Billistic cleared the inlet to the pond, Beth called.

  “We have a candidate moving towards the beach due south a half click. Shore teams converge from both sides. Billistic, continue straight ahead at reduced speed to allow teams to converge. Out.” The outlier wings of the inlet were mangrove entangled. The only suitable landing area was a small beach directly opposite the inlet to the pond.

  A figure, large and somewhat unsteady on his feet, dragged his feet through the dunes heading for the water. He wore a floppy hat, long sleeved shirt, and khaki shorts with deck shoes. White sunscreen was smeared on his nose. The typical looking local was in for a surprise.

  The Billistic arrived at the beach at the same time as the beachcomber. Cyrus killed the engine, the bow gently grounding in the sand.

  “You Cyrus?” the beachcomber called out. He sounded drunk. Chris immediately knew something was wrong. Cyrus and Bobby Lee knew each other. He remained hidden below the gunwales.

  “Yeah. Where’s Bobby Lee?” Cyrus asked.

  “Don’t know no Bobby Lee. Fella gave twenty bucks to give you a note.” The beachcomber held the paper aloft.

  “NCIS! Freeze! Hands on your head, NOW!” Two agents from each side, all shouting commands, emerged from the dunes at a quick walk, weapons trained on the drunken local, who began turning in circles. Chris leapt from hiding on the Billistic, and vaulted into the shallow water, rifle trained on the chest of the beachcomber. They were on him instantly, wrestling him to the ground. Beth snatched the note from his hand. It read:

  “Cyrus, change of plans. $2,000 in locker 117 at Municipal terminal. I’ll call you later.

  Bobby Lee.”

  Beth reached for her tac radio, “Houston, we have a problem. Everyone come in to the beach.”

  The Bayboro team and NCIS agents all convened on the beach. The hapless local, cuffed and scared, sat in the sand, surrounded by agents with rifles. Cyrus, cuffed and unsure what comes next sat beside him. Admiral Phillips studied the note Beth handed him.

  “Bit of a FUBAR, I’d say.” The Admiral remarked.

  “What’s a FUBAR?” Kate asked.

  “Jimmy tell you. He invent term.” Thuy remarked.

  The Admiral’s expression changed from frustration, to something else entirely. He handed the note back to Beth, and strode purposely towards the captives. Pointing at the drunken local, he spoke.

  “Get this drunk bilge rat off my beach. Hold him and sweat him for what he knows. Send a team to find locker 117 and retrieve anything you find there.” Agents moved immediately, removing the local. The Admiral turned to Cyrus.

  “Now you. Do you seriously think playing me is a good idea? I have so many ways to make you hurt, I’m having a hard time choosing the one I like best. You feel me, Mister?”

  Kate and Thuy certainly did, stepping back a pace, wide eyed at the menace in Admiral Phillips voice and demeanor. Former Marine Jimmy just smiled. His smart mouth in his brief service to the Corp had earned him many dressing downs from non-commissioned officers up to Flag grade brass.

  “I’m one second away from keelhauling your sorry ass. You better start talking like a two-dollar whore who shorted her pimp, or Gitmo will be the least of your worries.” Phillips turned to Agent Chris, and thumped a stiff finger on his chest.

  “Sweat him till his eyes bleed and snot runs out of his ears, then do it again. Clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.” Chris, ramrod straight, replied. NCIS are technically civilians, outside the chain of command, and therefore able to investigate ranking officers without interference. But they were all ex-Navy, and reported to the Secretary of the Navy. Old habits die hard. Chris knew the Admirals words and actions were meant for Cyrus, not him, and played along. He and another agent grabbed Cyrus, jerked him to his feet, and quick marched him off the beach.

  Admiral Phillips turned, and approached the somewhat stunned Bayboro team. His demeanor was completely normal.

  “How did you like my motivational speech?” He quietly asked the group.

  “You scared the crap out of me, Steve.” Kate answered.

  “What keelhauling?” Thuy asked the Admiral.

  “Just what it sounds like. You don’t want any, Thuyroid.” Jimmy answered.

  “Well, I don’t expect much further intel from those two, but it’s always a good idea to put the fear of God in them. I imagine Cyrus will start flapping his jaw like a duck’s butt. No telling what we might learn. Any ideas where Bobby Lee may have found alternative transportation?” Agent Beth spoke up.

  “There’s rough seas forecast for tonight. Pretty good storm. That Billistic would make the trip to Cuba just fine in calm seas and good weather, but would be a death trap on open water in a storm. I think Bobby Lee has found a bigger boat. Airports are sealed tight. Only one road off Key West, and all vehicles are being searched. A boat is the only way off, unless he swims.”

  “Where would he find a bigger boat?” Steve asked.

  “The bigger marinas south of downtown.” Beth answered.

  “Let’s roll.” Jimmy remarked.

  Dirt Road, North of I-77, South Texas

  Miguel ran for his life. After bursting through the thicket that marked the edge of the tree line, he recklessly ran through the small forest, changing direction every few paces to throw off the aim of the soldier he expected to shoot him in the back at any moment. Unlike Luis, he did not know how many soldiers there were, only that Luis had been cut down in a hail of automatic weapons fire. His heroin was gone, captured. His trusted killer was dead, and he was alone and without papers or prospects in the United States, a hunted man. He did not think, he just ran.

  Through sheer luck, he stumbled upon the tractor path, but Miguel had always been lucky when it came to evading capture. He quickly turned back from the open path, and hid in the brush next to it. He listened for pursuit through his heavy breathing. He heard none. After several long minutes, he crawled to the edge of the brush, looked both ways for signs of ambushers. There were none in sight.

  Miguel cautiously emerged from the brush, and began jogging down the tractor path, away from the barn. It was almost completely dark, as the sun had left for the day. Within minutes, he broke free of the trees onto a dirt road, an
d stopped. A truck was parked at the mouth of the tractor path. He almost ran past it.

  “Luis, you found transportation. You save me even in death.” Miguel opened the door, but the interior light was freshly smashed. Plastic shards littered the bench seat. In the darkness, he reached for the ignition on the steering column. No keys.

  “Luis, you save me, then kill me. Ahrrrg!” he shouted, pounding the steering wheel. He jumped from the truck cab, and slammed the door.

  Which way to go? Turning right would take him towards the coast and Brownsville, the scene of the crossing battle. It was sure to be crawling with Norte Americano soldiers and Mexican Special Forces. Turning left would eventually lead him to San Antonio.