Operation Zulu: Dos

by Gamboa, Allen

  “I hear there’s an opening in North Dakota.” Hale smirked.

  “You guys have an air base there?” Morgan gave him a sideways glance.

  “Yep. Grand Forks.” Hale pulled off his helmet. “The old saying is there’s a woman behind every tree.” Morgan frowned at Hale. “Ain’t no trees.”

  “You okay?” Galvan asked again.

  The sergeant nodded. “Better.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. We don’t need somebody’s butt-boy kid popping our own team, let alone leading them in a fight.” He nodded at Hale who was trying hard to suppress a grin. “That’s it for the day. I’ll get a hold of Hamil and then we’ll have a little 'counseling' with Lieutenant Kubicek.” He removed his own helmet. “Go have a beer and take the edge off. I’ll see you both at 0600 for a run. With any luck, I’ll have unfucked our problem by then.”

  “Yes, sir.” Morgan squinted in the sunlight. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Sergeant, all I’ve done is said a bunch of words that don’t mean shit… yet. 0600, Sergeants.”

  “Captain.” Hale gave him a curt nod then bent down, picked up Morgan’s’ helmet, and handed it to the senior NCO.

  “Thanks, Rollie. I take back almost everything bad I’ve ever said about the Air Farce.”

  “Hm. You grunts are just jealous.” He held up a finger then clicked on his headset. “Sergeant Cross, we’re calling it quits for the day. All team members are to meet up at the NCO club in thirty mikes. Over.”

  “Roger,” Cross said happily in her headset.

  “I could really use a shot.” Morgan checked his weapon.

  “Almost just had two, buddy.” Hale chuckled as he slapped him on the back of his harness.

  “Dumb fucker.” Morgan shook his head. “I knew there was something I didn’t like about Kubicek.”

  “You mean other than being an utter asshole?” Hale watched the kill-house door open and the rest of the teams start to fall out.

  “Yeah, besides that.”

  “Well, hopefully the boss can get Hamil to do something about him,” the Air Force sergeant said, optimism in his voice.

  “Rollie, you know how it works. The L.T. is obviously connected,” Morgan said enthusiastically. “But Galvan is a good dude, so maybe.”

  “NCO club, thirty minutes!” Hale shouted at the soldiers that had formed up. “Check your weapons and gear then beat cheeks to the bar. Last one there is buying the first round! Let’s go!” He turned and hit Morgan in the shoulder. “Better get moving Lin. You don’t make it, you're buying.”

  “Oh, I ain’t buying, brother. Believe me.” He held up his helmet and ran a finger through the freshly made crease in the side of it. “I’m not buying any rounds today.”

  FLACO

  PASSADO, MEXICO

  2 MILES FROM CAMACHO’S COMPOUND

  “You still selling that shit to the cartel?” Nero Duran asked as he walked past Ramiro's dirty Dodge Durango. The tall Mexican carried two ice-cold beers. He sat down at a wooden table across from the sweaty gunrunner. Taking the open cerveza bottles from his old friend, Remiro nodded. Nero smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. Shade from several trees graced the table and men, providing a much welcomed break from the baking sunlight. “Flaco, you still hoping Camacho will bring you in?”

  “Flaco.” Remiro rubbed his hand over his ample belly. “No one has called me that in years, Nero.” He slapped a hand on his gut. “At least they don’t call me cochino.”

  “Si. Get any bigger, Remiro, and they might.” He took a swig from the beer and wiped his mouth. “I still think of you as Flaco. Those were good times back then.”

  “I was poor back then.” Remiro rolled the bottle around in his hands.

  “So are you richer now?”

  “Well, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Blood money, amigo.”

  “Bah, blood money. Money is money, Nero.” He waved around at the corrugated sheet metal siding of the other man's small home.

  “Cartel money in your pocket and now you’re a big man?”

  “Just wealthier, my amigo.” He took a long pull from the cool beer.

  “Why did you come to see me anyway?”

  Remiro set his beer down. “Camacho has something brewing up there.”

  “Oh yeah?” Nero raised an eyebrow.

  “Si, there are Americans in the compound doing God knows what. Camacho has Salazar looking to hire men for security. Camacho could use a man with some experience. The clowns he has working for him now couldn’t hit a urinal with their dicks. I thought that maybe you might be interested in some work. Now, I know you don’t want any blood money…”

  “A hired gun for Bob the Butcher?” He stared down at the sweating emerald colored beer bottle.

  “Si.” Remiro shrugged. “You have the skills, Nero. You were one of the Narco Task Force's best men.”

  “Ha.” Nero shook his head and looked around at the outside of the shoddy building he called home. Two of the local addicts, Payaso and Cruz, sat heavily against a wall, lost in a deep drug-induced slumber. “Ten years on the Narco squad and look what it gets me.”

  “You got a bad deal, amigo. Now I’m offering you a much better one.”

  The ex-soldier took a drink from the bottle and pointed the neck at the gunrunner. “The whole system was corrupt, Remiro. Commandant Uribe was destroying the cartel's supplies by day and taking their rivals money at night.” He set the bottle down heavily on the table. “Sergeants Diaz and Vasquez and their families were killed because they found out and went to tell Captain Esteban about it. I would have killed the Commandant with my bare hands if I could have. The old man had me framed for stealing weapons.” He rolled the bottle around in his hands. “You know I spent two years in El Abismo for being an honest soldier? I was doing my job. I lost Maya and my daughters because of that fuck.”

  “Well, Commandant Uribe got his near Juarez last year. I heard he was shot sixty times with an American machine gun.” Remiro smirked. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “American machine gun?” Nero leaned back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. “Where would I get the money to buy an M-16?”

  “M-16?” The gunrunner nodded knowingly. “Good weapon. See, what is that thing they say? Karma? Yes, karma.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How are Maya and the girls?”

  “She married some farmer from the north. The girls are fine.” He pulled out and old flip phone and tossed it onto the table. “Miranda calls me all the time. Evie, not so much.” He smiled. “She’s all wrapped up in boys. Dios mio. They grow up so fast.”

  “If you had money, you could travel up north and see them all the time.”

  “Si… and working for Bob the Butcher could get them killed.”

  “Calling him Bob the Butcher will get you killed. Working security for Camacho pays a hell of lot more than doing garage work. You’ll be able to see your girls.”

  “True.” Nero sighed heavily. “I don’t know why I’m holding on to any sense of duty here. Being a stand-up guy just destroyed my family and sent me to prison.”

  “What do they say? If you can’t beat them, join them.”

  “That’s an easy out, Remiro.” He looked around the shit-hole he called home and felt sorry for himself. “What do I need to do?”

  “Show up at the compound and tell Domingo I sent you. Don’t tell them you were an anti-Narco soldier for heaven's sake.”

  “Si.” He nodded tiredly. “I will think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long, Oso,” Remiro said, calling Duran by his old nickname, Bear. “And don’t show up dragging your M-16 behind you.”

  JUST DON’T LEAVE YOUR GIRLFRIEND OR YOUR DOG WITH HIM

  NCO CLUB

  CREECH AFB

  NEVADA, USA

  “I would have shot the fucker!” Sergeant Veronica “Ronnie” Cross said as she sat at the bar between Morgan and Hale. All three held cold bottl
es of beer in their hands and were dressed in civilian clothes. The big Non Commissioned Officer's Club was filled with off duty soldiers. A shitty country band played on a small stage at the rear of the building. A few couples danced listlessly to the horrible cover band’s version of Hey, Baby, Que Paso? “Shoot him right in the ass. Right where it would hurt him the most; right in the ol' brain-pan.”

  “Definitely, Cross.” Morgan grinned and took a swig from the beer bottle. “Kubicek's head's so far up his own ass, you’d hit him for sure.”

  “Hell, it wouldn’t do any good.” Hale set his bottle down on top of the slick bar. “Command would just send us another asshole. Maybe worse. They’re like freaking rabbits.”

  “Probably screw like rabbits too.” Cross chuckled. “The L.T. must be related to Osborne.”

  “Uh huh.” Morgan crossed his arms. “They send them all to the same shitty online academy.” He smirked. “I have the worst luck with lieutenants. What the fuck?”

  “It’s not you.” Cross put down her beer and grabbed Morgan’s left shoulder, giving him a firm shake. “It’s them.”

  “You sound like my ex. It’s not me, it’s you.”

  “Ha.” Cross picked back up her bottle. “That’s what I said to my ex; couldn’t leave him alone with anything with a hole in it.”

  “Wow.” Hale frowned and sat back on his bar stool. “Sounds like a sweet guy.”

  “Started out that way. Boy, he had me fooled.” She brushed back some of her hair over her ear. “Anyway, don’t know why I’m sharing that.”

  “Don’t know either.” Morgan signaled the bartender for three more beers. “That’s the most insight into your love life you’ve told me in all the time we’ve worked together.”

  “Beer talking.”

  “Have another and feel free not to share anymore.” The platoon sergeant handed the round of fresh beers to the others at the bar.

  “Thanks.” Hale waved the bottle at Morgan. “How long you two work together?”

  “Three years?” Morgan looked over at Cross, his brows furrowed. Cross nodded as she took a drink from the new bottle. “Three years,” he repeated, turning back to Hale.

  “How about the giant?” Hale nodded toward Redwood, who was out on the dance floor with a cute blonde.

  “Same.” Morgan shook his head at the giant soldier's awkward movements. “Redwood is one tough fucker. I saw him beat down two ex-Spetsnaz members in Ukraine. He almost killed them. Good guy.”

  “Any more from your old unit?”

  “See Rico Suave over there?” Cross pointed the neck of her beer bottle at a young black man who was sitting at a table between two female soldiers; all three were laughing and giggling.

  “Johnson?”

  “Yeah. Sergeant Duley Johnson. Good soldier, just don’t leave your girlfriend or your dog with him.”

  “How did you get Dj to go along with you, Morgan?” Cross asked. “I thought he had a baby mama somewhere.”

  “Yep.” He chuckled. “While he was off healing up, his baby mama delivered.” Morgan took another drink. “She delivered a little white baby.”

  “What?”

  “Yep, she was cheating on poor ol' Duley. After that, it was easy to talk him into coming along.”

  “Damn.” Cross said, throwing a glance over in the busy young sergeant's direction.

  “That guy building the leaning tower of Budweiser over there,”—Morgan pointed to another table where four soldiers sat watching a fifth stack beer cans—“is Doc Kegy. He’s the best medic I’ve ever had on a team—mean bastard if you give him a knife. The two handing him beer cans are ‘Snake’ Pushkin and Amatuzo, both worked for me in Mali. The other two, Travis and Vanelli, I just know through training.”

  “Kegy saved the Sarge’s life in Mali,” Cross said as she took a quick swig from her beer.

  “Yes, he did.” Morgan nodded. “The rest of the team is from other Army units. What about you?” Morgan asked Hale.

  “It’s just me. I was with 110th heavy weather rescue unit. I was dealing with a real bad tour of Afghanistan.” He reached in a wicker bowl full of mini pretzels. “Hamil approached me with this job. I’d done a tour with his oldest boy and I guess he’d talked me up to his old man. This sounded like a good gig, then I found out my wife was pregnant.” He was about to pop the handful of pretzels into his mouth when Cross grabbed his thick forearm.

  “I wouldn’t.” Hale raised a brow at the red head. “Those are the same ones that were out last week.”

  “What?”

  “See.” The sergeant stuck her thumb and forefinger in the brown bowl and pulled out a used band aid. Disgusted, she shivered then shook her hand and let it fall to the floor.

  “How the hell?”

  “Some prick that was trying to hit on me last week was going to town on that bowl. His fingers were all bandaged up from some dumb shit-shooting accident. I noticed when he pulled his hand out from that snack trough that the Band-Aid was gone. Very nasty.”

  “Thanks.” Hale opened his hand and let the pretzels fall back into the bowl. His stomach turned a little as he wiped his hands together. Morgan chuckled and took another drink.

  “Did you still go out with Band-Aid hand?”

  “Well,” Cross looked down at her beer. “He couldn’t shoot worth shit but he had other skills that… let’s say…”

  “Over sharing, Cross!” Hale took a quick swig to calm his queasy stomach.

  Morgan shook his head and sat up on his barstool. He slapped Hale on the shoulder then slid the bowl of pretzels farther down the slick counter top. The army sergeant liked the air force PJ (Pararescue Jumper). He seemed to have a good head on his shoulders and so far proved to be an excellent training partner.

  “You were saying your wife is pregnant?”

  “Yes.” Hale nodded happily.

  “How far along?”

  “Three months,” he said proudly.

  “Congratulations, Hale,” Cross yelled above the horrible cover version of Elvira.

  “Thanks, Sergeant Cross.” Hale set his bottle down and turned on the barstool to face the other two. “It was a hard decision but I had my wife’s support.”

  “Good career move,” Cross said.

  “Definitely,” Morgan agreed. He then looked over at Cross and smirked. “I know for a fact it was a good career move for you, Cross.”

  “Hey, I did that for you Morgan. There’s not too many others I’d do that for.”

  “And I fully appreciate that. Now shut up, drink your beer, and let’s watch Redwood step all over that poor girl's toes out there.”

  A BITE TO EAT

  PASSADO, MEXICO

  Martin Banuelos stepped out and shut the door of his small two bedroom house just as the plate slammed into the other side of the door and broke into a thousand pieces. As the glass shards tinkled across the hard-pack floor inside, he could still hear Ana’s muffled cursing from inside their small kitchen. Banuelos shook his head and looked over at his dusty old Chevy pick-up. He never should have stayed out late partying with Juarez and his men. Banuelos slowly walked over to the beat up truck and climbed in; the seat squeaking under his girth as he sat down. Grunting, he pulled the tiny .22 pistol out of his tight waistband and laid it across the torn, vinyl bench seat.

  Through the half-open passenger window, he could still hear Ana’s grating voice ranting and raving. He shouted for her to shut up; full well knowing she couldn’t hear him. The part-time hired gun jammed his key into the ignition and cranked the old engine over. The Chevy C10 roared to life.

  Banuelos smiled and patted the worn steering wheel. Nero had done a good job on the tune-up. He looked back over at his rundown house and could see Ana’s animated form moving in the partially draped window. Now would probably be a good time to head over to Nero’s and pay him what he owed for the engine work. Banuelos shifted the truck into drive and headed out onto the road into town thinking he would stop at Reye’s bar and grab a bit
e to eat since dinner was now out of the question. He’d driven about half a mile when he noticed someone lying face down on the side of the road. Shaking his head, he pulled up a few feet ahead of the person and got out of his truck. Banuelos figured it was probably one of the local drunks or junkies passed out. As he got closer, he found he was right. It was the druggie Cruz laid out on the shoulder of the road. He knew if he left him there something bad would more than likely happen to the spaced out idiot.

  “Hey,” Banuelos nudged him with his booted foot. “Cruz, wake up!” The druggie didn’t budge or appear to be breathing. Shit, he thought to himself. With some effort, he knelt down next to Cruz and felt his neck for a pulse. There was no pulse or signs of breathing. The Good Samaritan leaned back and noticed Cruz’s skin was a sickly pale color. Some of his flesh had the appearance of having been peeled or torn off.

  “Dio mios,” he said under his breath and he made the sign of the cross. This was no good. With a chill running down his spine, he struggled to his feet. He would have to call Doctor Chapa immediately. He patted his pockets for his phone but he realized he’d left it in the kitchen during his narrow escape from Ana.

  “Don’t worry,” Banuelos said to the addict's unmoving back. “I will get Doctor Chapa.” Panicked, he turned back to his truck. From beside his feet, a hand suddenly snaked up and grabbed the heavy man by an ankle.

  “Dios!” Banuelos looked down to see Cruz grabbing onto his ankle. Impossible, he thought, Cruz is dead! Then Banuelos looked into the face of the thing that had a hold of him. Vacant eyes stared at him above the loosely hanging skin of its cheeks; broken, jagged teeth snapped at him. It was El Diablo himself! Banuelos screamed as he tried to pull free from the demon's grip. Struggling, Banuelos lost his balance and fell hard to the ground. His screams soon disappeared into horrible eating and tearing noises.