Operation Zulu: Dos

by Gamboa, Allen

  “No.” The man smiled and extended a hand. “Lieutenant Colonel John Hamil.”

  Morgan reluctantly shook the colonel's hand. “Well, seems you know who I am, sir. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can. First,”—he pulled out a small, black box and handed it to Morgan—“on behalf of a grateful nation, I present you with the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Morgan said, feeling a little awkward. Without opening it, he dropped the box on the bed next to him.

  The colonel smirked at the Sergeant’s casual attitude. “Don’t you want to open it? Make sure it’s not just a bunch of rocks in there.”

  “I trust you, Colonel. You seem to have a trustworthy face.” Hamil laughed and shook his head.

  “That’s a first sergeant.” The colonel then cleared his throat. “Your men will all be getting medals and citations for their actions.”

  “That’s really swell. I’m sure they and their families will be real happy about that.” Morgan could feel a slight ache building up in his shoulder. He gently rubbed it and looked back up at the officer. “Sir, I appreciate you stopping in to have this chat and to give me the medals.” He shoved the box farther over on the bed with his free hand. “Don’t think I’m not all grateful and shit but,”—he glanced at his cheap watch—“I’ve got physical therapy in a few minutes.”

  The officer raised an open palm. “I didn’t come here just to give you those medals. I have a job offer for you, Sergeant Morgan.”

  “Thanks, but I have a job.”

  “I have a better job. One I think you’ll really like.”

  Morgan nodded, disinterested. “I really like mine.”

  Hamil looked around then shut the room’s door. “I’m offering you platoon sergeant on a black ops fugitive task force that military command is putting together.”

  “First Sergeant for a fugitive task force? Hmmm.” Morgan frowned. “Sounds pretty damn cool, but why me?”

  “Well,”—he pulled up a chair and sat down—“it was you that tracked Al-Quds to that ville and it was your patrol that captured him. You have outstanding evaluations, and you don’t have any family to keep you from shipping out at a moment’s notice.”

  “I did meet a girl here.” Morgan smiled.

  “Sergeant, there are girls everywhere.”

  “You have a point.” The sergeant shrugged. “Sir, you know Captain Osborne was in charge of that Al-Quds patrol.”

  “Uh, huh.” Hamil rubbed his close shaved chin. “I knew Osborne and we interviewed your men extensively about the capture back at Camp Hansen. It was your intel that landed you there.”

  “Yeah, well, we just got plain lucky with that dipshit being in the first building we came to.” He chuckled. “Pure, dumb luck; no skill involved.”

  “Are you trying to talk yourself out of one of the best career moves you’re ever going to be offered? You’re a good soldier, Sergeant, and I think we could really use you on this task force.”

  “What will I be doing?”

  “Tracking down terrorists.”

  Morgan slowly picked up the box and opened it. Both medals were inside. “Capture or kill?”

  “Whatever needs to be done,” Hamil said quietly.

  Morgan snapped the box shut. The sound seemed to echo throughout the hospital room. “You know in this climate that’s considered a no-no. Why don’t you have Delta or Rangers doing this job?”

  “This is very black bag. We are trying a different tactic with this team. Combat soldiers but not necessarily special ops guys.”

  “Hmm.” Morgan pursed his lips together. “Different. Still catching bad guys?”

  The colonel shrugged. “It’s stopping bad guys.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Morgan nodded and shook the small medal box in his hand. “Well, there weren’t rocks in the box. Going back to a regular line unit sounds kinda boring now. You do have that trustworthy face and I like catching bad guys… What the hell. I’m in.”

  “Excellent.” The officer stood up and extended his hand. Morgan slid off the bed and shook it.

  “Guess I need to get a shave and a haircut.”

  “No. Welcome to the wonderful world of black operations, Sergeant Morgan. The more you look like a civilian, the better. I’ll see you at our training base in Nevada.”

  “Nevada?”

  “Top secret. You’ll have your new orders this afternoon. Oh yes, if you have any of your team members you would like to recommend, we have openings.”

  “I do. In fact I need a favor. I have a sergeant, well, she’s a private now…”

  “Veronica Cross.” Hamil smiled. “Okay. That won’t be a problem. I read the report about her striking Captain Anderson in Mali. Cross appears to be an excellent soldier but not good at following orders. If we include her, you need to keep her in line. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant—er… Private Cross is the best there is. She was protecting her family, sir. The Army is all she has.”

  “I’ll handle that. Welcome to the team, Sergeant.” He opened the door. “Someone will be in touch with you shortly to get those names and deliver your orders.” The Colonel nodded and stepped outside. Morgan sat back down on the bed and picked up the closed box of medals.

  “Swell.”

  CRAP DETAIL

  FORT HOOD,

  GATESVILLE, TEXAS

  Veronica ‘Ronnie’ Cross stared at the nasty toilet bowl and shook her head. Five years in the Army and this is what her career had come to; cleaning shit-stained porcelain waste containers like a glorified janitor. She pulled the bowl scrubber out of a bucket on her little cart, opened the stall door, and stepped over to the dirty toilet. As she dumped cleaner into it, she had to tell herself it had been worth it. When it came right down to it—no matter how many horrible latrines she had to clean—it definitely had been worth it. The look on that prick Anderson’s face when she gave him that right hook was priceless. It helped her sleep at night recalling that dickhead falling to the ground at her feet. No one was going to deny her wounded soldiers access to an evac… no one. She’d seen too many fellow soldiers injured and killed. No self-centered ass kisser was going to stand in the way of Cross saving her men.

  She ran the brush around the edge of the smeared bowl. Yeah—she smirked and nodded to herself—it was worth it. She had no family and the Army was it. Word had gotten around at Fort Hood about her striking the captain and why. It made her a minor celebrity among the grunts and a pariah with the officers. The former sergeant had an overwhelming fear that Fort Hood would be the final stop of her prematurely shortened career.

  Well—she wiped some sweat from her forehead with the back of a yellow gloved hand—at least Morgan’s alive and well.

  “Private Cross,” a voice said from outside the stall.

  “I’m a little busy here. Did you see the sign outside?”

  “Private Cross.” The voice was insistent this time.

  “Look,”—she dropped the scrubber into the bowl—“just put in a requisition for whatever shit stall you need cleaned. I’ll get to it… eventually.”

  “Private Cross.” The voice outside the stall door was clearly annoyed by her. “Drop your gear and get your ass out here… now!”

  “Shit,” the private grumbled. It was Sergeant First Class Nye. She pulled off her gloves, leaving the scrubber standing in the bowl, and turned to pull the stall door open. A tall, imposing, shaved head sergeant stood glaring at her. “Sarge.”

  “Private,” Nye growled, hands on hips. “I see latrine duty hasn’t helped your attitude one bit.”

  “Probably made it a little shittier, Sarge.” She grinned.

  “Uh huh.” He rocked back and forth on the heels of his sparkling boots. “I have orders for you.” He thrust a small stack of papers at her.

  “Orders?” She quietly let out a breath. She was sure Nye was holding her discharge papers. She reluctantly took them.

  “Relax, Cross.” Nye cracke
d a slight smile in his face of stone. “Somebody loves you.”

  “What?” She stared down at the paperwork.

  “Good luck, Sergeant Cross.” Nye turned around and headed out of the latrine. “Remember to secure your cart before you leave. Been a real pleasure.”

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  THE CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS,

  MEXICO

  BOB THE BUTCHER’S COMPOUND

  “Listen, Domingo.” The plump gunrunner Remiro lifted an Ak-47 out of the back of the dust-covered Dodge Durango and wiped some of the gun oil off the barrel. He hefted the weapon in his dirty hands and handed it toward the thinner man. Domingo just grunted and grabbed the rifle out of the smaller, squattier man's claws. “I need more for each rifle!”

  “Be quiet. Just be quiet for a moment,” Domingo angrily snapped in Spanish. He cycled the empty weapon then quickly looked it over. He grunted, satisfied, and then dropped the AK-47 back into Ramiro's greedy paws. “How many do you have?”

  “Twenty.” He laid the Russian weapon on top of a stack of others in the back of the SUV. “I can get more.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Domingo smiled through yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “Ten dollars more per rifle. That’s all I can offer.”

  The sweaty gunrunner glanced around the walled courtyard of Bob the Butcher’s Vera Cruz compound. A few of Camacho's soldiers carrying rifles strolled atop the white adobe walls. Several more sat in the shade at a wooden table drinking cervezas and laughing. All were armed. He looked back at the skinny Domingo who had a huge Desert Eagle strapped to his hip. Remiro hated dealing guns inside Camacho's camp. It did, however, beat dealing with some of the other gangs that would just cut your throat and take your weapons. Remiro just really hated dealing with this middling cartel lieutenant who was always trying to haggle him down.

  “I can do that,” Remiro said hesitantly and wiped some sweat off his dusty face. ”Just for you, my friend.”

  “Yes, friend.” He turned and called over to the men sitting at the table. Three of them got up and strolled over to where the two men were doing business. The tallest of the three was dressed in a clean white linen suit and had a thick mop of black hair. He was much bigger than Domingo and carried a cold beer bottle in his left hand. All had pistols strapped to their waist.

  “What is it, Domingo?” the big man asked in a weird, low, almost mumbled voice.

  “My amigo, Remiro, is asking for ten dollars more for each rifle.”

  “Give it to him,” he snarled then took a swig from the bottle. “El Jefe is bringing in more men from the Rio Tierra to help guard this place. We’re going to need them.”

  “Salazar…”

  “Domingo. Do not argue with me.” Salazar tapped the beer bottle roughly on the other man's acne covered forehead. “Give him what he wants or maybe you and Dirty Sanchez will have a little talk, eh?”

  Domingo frowned and touched his dirt smeared forehead. “Boss.…”

  “The only reason I keep you around is because you’re the only one of these clowns that can shoot straight.” The cartel captain grinned. “Now pay Remiro his money and help Banuelos and Nacho unload the rifles.”

  “Yes, yes, Salazar.”

  “Good.” The big man turned to the gunrunner and waved him over. Remiro reluctantly trudged over to where Salazar stood sipping his beer.

  “Yes, Señor Salazar?”

  “Deal with me next time.” He watched the three cartel men grabbing up the rifles then pulled Remiro in close to him and whispered, “You get what I asked for?”

  “I have a lead. I should have it soon,” Remiro said quietly.

  “Excellent. Just between you and me, eh?” Salazar smiled at him through shiny, white, shark teeth. The cartel captain patted him on the back, causing Remiro to shudder involuntarily. Salazar released him and Remiro quickly bowed his head and hurried back to his now empty SUV. Salazar finished his beer then tossed the bottle to one of his men. Rubbing his hands together, he strode over to the largest of the compound’s many work buildings. One of Salazar’s security men stood idly guarding the door. The hired gun saw his boss approaching and fumbled to open the steel door. The bigger man nodded and stepped inside the air-conditioned structure. He was immediately struck by the cooler temperature, the smell of gasoline and sulfur, and the faint sound of music. Well, it’s kind of like music, Salazar thought to himself. What did Señor Black call it? Muzak. That was it. Shitty music without the words. Black is one strange cat. Camacho’s second chuckled. Salazar could not trust a man that did not like the poetry of lyrics. What kind of monster does that? The cartel member shook his head at the thought. What a sad world Black must live in.

  Inside, several men in white lab coats were working on readying a new batch of the drug Krokodil. Salazar glanced around at the dozen or so techs that were moving about like a colony of worker bees. They were busy manufacturing a new form of the Krokodil that would be more addictive than it already was, thus lining their pockets with even more Euros and American dollars. The white-suited man walked over to a table that had dozens of yellow vials sitting on it. He picked one up and held it up to the light. The bright yellow color of the liquid inside was very pretty; almost mesmerizing.

  “Careful with that, Mister Salazar,” a voice said from behind.

  “Huh?” Salazar turned around to see Mister Black standing behind him holding a clipboard. “Oh, Señor Black… I was just admiring this.” He showed him the vial.

  “Beautiful, I know,” Black said, gently taking the vial from Salazar and gingerly placing it back in its holder. “Almost as beautiful as the money it will bring in.”

  “Si.” Camacho's second nodded.

  “Can I help you, Mister Salazar?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” he said brightly, almost as if he’d snapped out of a trance the yellow liquid had put him under. “I have more security men coming from Rio Tierra this afternoon. I also have your workroom set up.” Salazar then said pointedly, “I have a… uh… volunteer waiting also.”

  “That is real good news.” Black felt a pleasant stir in his groin. “I would like to start clinical test as soon as possible. This is just between you and me, right?”

  “Si.” Salazar brushed absently at the lapels on his suit coat. “Just keep those payments coming and El Jefe with never know.”

  Black nodded absently and looked down at his watch. “Will Mister Camacho be here today?”

  “Yes, El Jefe will be here soon,” Salazar said, staring at the gringo’s expensive watch. “Excuse me, Señor, your watch… is that the Christopher Columbus?”

  “Yes,” Black said proudly. “Why?”

  “Ah, Señor Black.” He pulled back his shirt sleeve to reveal a familiar watch. “I have the same one. How do you like it?”

  “Fine.” Black let out a breath and quickly pulled his sleeve back over his watch. The millionaire felt the stirring in his crotch quickly fade. “I must go.”

  He turned back toward his office thinking to himself that when he got back to the States, the first thing he was going to buy was a new ultra expensive watch. Black hated every second he had to work with these classless pretenders. The millionaire had to tell himself this all was a means to an end. Camacho and Salazar would never know what the hell had hit them. Black sat down at his desk and pulled open the top drawer. Even the electronic sounds of Wham's I’m Your Man playing in the background failed to snap him out of his pissy mood. He tore the expensive watch from his wrist like a petulant child and angrily tossed it inside. After slamming the drawer shut, he started to flip through the test results on his clipboard. He smiled to himself as he found he was subconsciously tapping his fingers along to Baltimora’s Tarzan Boy; muzak could always put him in a better mood. Black started to think about what waited for him in his workroom and he began to grow hard. Life is good, he thought as he smiled darkly.

  A WOMAN BEHIND EVERY TREE

  CREECH AIR FORCE BASE

  NEVADA

  Morg
an angrily shoved open the kill-house door and stepped out into the warm sunlight. He let the heavy door slam shut behind him as he took a few steps forward, letting his M-4, secured within its sling, drop against his chest. The sergeant pulled off his helmet and flung it onto the dusty ground. He wiped his mop of sweaty, black hair with a Kevlar-gloved hand then turned back to the entrance of the kill-house. Captain Galvan and Tech Sergeant Hale pushed through the open doorway. Galvan already had his rifle secure and was hurrying over to where the sergeant stood shaking his head. Hale glanced over his shoulder as the door opened again. Sergeants Cross and Johnson were starting to step outside when Hale waved them back inside. Cross nodded and closed the door. The tech sergeant secured his rifle then double timed over to where the other two men stood talking.

  “You okay, Sergeant?” Captain Galvan asked as he rested a hand on Morgan's shoulder.

  “No,” Morgan shook his head. “No, I’m not. That fucking green L.T. almost blew my head off! Where is that little rat bastard? I’ll twist his fucking head off!”

  Hale unstrapped his helmet and removed it. “Morgan…”

  “Fucking Lieutenant Kubicek just grazed my shoulder too!” He grabbed at a strap on his harness that had obviously been torn by the passing of a round.

  “Fuck me.” Hale slumped back a little and crossed his massive forearms.

  “Crap.” The younger Captain grabbed at the damaged strap. “Sorry, Morgan; looks like he’s just doing the ol’ spray and pray.” The officer stroked the front of his newly grown beard. “I’ll have a heart-to-heart with the lieutenant.”

  “Yeah.” The sergeant wiped some sweat from his face. “The near head-shot really scared the fuck outta me but then this?” He slapped a hand on his shoulder harness. “He’s gotta go. Kubicek is going to get one, or all of us, killed. He’s got no business being on this team.”

  “Morgan’s right.” Hale nodded.

  “Crap,” Galvan said halfheartedly. He glanced back at the kill-house then at his two sergeants. The officer was older than the two NCOs with a lot of hard earned leadership and combat experience behind him. “Kubicek is a turd,” Galvan said quietly. Normally the captain wouldn’t have voiced a complaint to his subordinates, but the lieutenant had pushed him too far this time. “Scores are all low and this…” He pointed to the ripped harness on Morgan’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to Hamil, and see if I can get him transferred somewhere else.”