Blood & Tacos #1

by Matthew Funk

  "With all due respect, General," McCreary began. "This ragtag squad of enlistees and I have been the eyes and ears of this brigade since Omaha. We're telling you what we saw. An entire Russian tank battalion has taken over my town. I need to go back there."

  "No," the general said. "We can't risk it."

  "Can't risk it? We need intel!"

  The general waved his hand over the card table. "We have intel! You've done your job. No need to put your squad—and the rest of us—at risk. So far, the Russians don't know our exact location. We've tied up their air assets over New Mexico, which is why they haven't spotted us."

  "You don't know that!"

  "McCreary, if these Commies catch you, they'll know we're moving south with brigade strength. At the very least, we wait for the 101st. Their radios are working. They're in Mississippi and heading this way."

  "General, if I may be so bold—" McCreary began.

  "No! That's my decision," Pearce said. "I'm sorry about the Russians in your town, Captain. I am." He added, with a soft tone that did nothing to assuage McCreary's worst fears: "They may be godless cowards, but I'm sure your wife is alive. You'll see her soon. Just be patient."

  "General, please—"

  "Dismissed!" The four men stood abruptly at attention, and in unison, turned and banged through the door into the hot Texas sun.

  The four of them—McCreary, Whitefeather, Hawker, and LaRoy—entered their tent and dropped their gear on their bunks. McCreary fumed. He had made certain assumptions on returning from their scouting run: Certainly after reading their report, Pearce would authorize another trip south.

  But he hadn't.

  Usually McCreary respected the old man's caution. It had held them at the Missouri River, just before a squad of Russian-made Mexican Hind helicopters had swooped in and wiped out the 173rd, waiting to rendezvous on the other side. The general's instincts had kept five thousand men from leaving what remained of Lincoln, Kansas—just avoiding the swarm of radioactive twisters south of Wichita Falls.

  But now, the general was being too cautious. McCreary and his men were the whiskers of a lion that was meant to pounce. Not cower in a scrub forest west of Waco.

  Behind McCreary, Hawker disassembled his rifle. "I'm sure she's all right," he said.

  "You know it, Cap" LaRoy chimed in. "That Sunny of yours sounds tough as nails. Don't you worry about all the things them Russians do to womenfolk whenever they take ov—"

  "That's enough, Private!" Whitefeather barked with uncharacteristic ferocity. The dreamcatcher above his head swayed from his voice.

  But McCreary heard none of this. His complete focus was on his bunk. Lying on his bunk was a sheet of paper. A string of words formed a row, neatly typewritten.

  In Russian.

  "Hawker," McCreary said in a voice he barely heard in his own ears. "I need you to read something for me."

  McCreary and his men hunkered behind the same rise where they'd spied Wrangler Plains the day before. Fall was coming, and the faint trace of their breath rose above them in the chill, dawn air.

  "You men don't have to be here," McCreary said. "We're defying orders. If you double-time it back to base, they might not notice you're gone."

  "Too late now, Captain," Hawker said. "You know we'd follow you to hell and back."

  "That's right, Cap," LaRoy said. "Ain't no Commie bastards gonna rape your town, no sir."

  Whitefeather breathed a patient sigh. "Don't worry about your wife, Captain. We're on my former hunting grounds now. The earth speaks to me. The Great Spirit will keep her safe."

  McCreary was moved beyond words. But it wasn't time for emotion. They had a job to do: to rescue Sunny, and, God willing, to kill some Ivans in the process.

  "Captain!" Hawker hissed, squinting through his scope. "A work detail! Ten… no, twenty civvies!"

  McCreary raised his binoculars. A couple dozen people walked out to Bill Dolan's wheat field. They carried scythes and hoes. Old-fashioned tools. McCreary thought he recognized a couple of them. There was Ida Grange, who'd owned the diner on Route 283. She wore a plain gray dress, the likes of which McCreary had never seen. And Bill Dolan himself, dressed as strangely in drab clothes, like something out of Fiddler on the Roof. He wore a wool cap. McCreary could only make out a faint red shape, front and center on the cap.

  A star.

  "Captain," Whitefeather said, squinting into the distance, "Company."

  McCreary moved the binoculars back and forth. "Where?"

  "Five guards," Hawker said, "To the right? See ‘em? … Mexicans. And two Russians with 'em."

  Sure enough, a squad of five Mexican soldiers, unshaven, their fatigues crumpled and disheveled came into view. Fifty yards away stood a pair of Russian privates, distinguished by their light blue shirts, shouldering their AK's, smoking cigarettes and laughing.

  "Backstabbers!" LaRoy muttered.

  "Let's move into position," McCreary said. "Whitefeather, you and LaRoy circle around. You handle the Mexicans. Hawker and I will take out the Russians."

  "I don't know," Hawker said. "It's not the objective. If we shoot and miss—"

  "Then don't miss," Whitefeather said. "When the Mexicans start to dance, sir, that'll be your cue." The big Indian and LaRoy were already moving through the tall grass like a couple of leopards.

  McCreary and Hawker had plenty of cover as they moved. A rusted combine. Three boulders. A pumphouse. Before too long, they crouched unseen only five yards from the Russians, who chattered away in their dirty, oily language. Beyond them, McCreary could see the Mexican guards, lounging next to their truck. One had his hat down over his eyes. The others leered at a group of teenage girls. The biggest soldier, with a huge, black mustache, catcalled one of the girls in Spanish. She didn't look up, only hoed the ground faster.

  McCreary raised his M-16 and aimed it at the Russian on the left. Hawker had his rifle up, peering unnecessarily though the sight. At this range, Hawker would have been automatic with a blindfold. Maybe he was just being cautious.

  The big soldier moved toward the girl. "¡Señorita!" McCreary heard him say. "Eres hermosa. Venir aquí!"

  His last words. The soldier's head silently exploded. The sound arrived a half second later. The Russians jerked to attention like startled antelope.

  Then, everything happened fast.

  The big Mexican fell to the ground like a headless sack of tamales. His men jumped to their feet. Two of them grabbed for their rifles—then began their silent, jiggling dance of death. The remaining two ran toward town.

  McCreary drew a bead on the nearest Russian's chest and fired. The M-16 kicked against his shoulder with a reassuring thump. The Russkie was dead before he hit the ground. A millisecond later, Hawker fired at the Russian on the right—and missed.

  The scrub oak tree behind the Russian split in two. Hawker's Russian looked around with big, cowardly eyes. He could see neither McCreary nor Hawker—and turned to run.

  Goddammit, Hawker! McCreary thought. He raised his rifle and dropped the Russian with a single shot to the back of the head. McCreary felt the slightest tug of sadness. The Russian kid had looked all of nineteen, and now he lay dead in the dirt, with the front of his head replaced with an exit wound.

  McCreary tried to quash any regret: They invaded my home. Not just my country. The Commies are in my home town. Sorry, Ivan: You had to die.

  Across the field, Whitefeather and LaRoy chased down the remaining Mexicans. LaRoy tackled the slower one and drove his Ranger's knife into the back of his head. He jiggled in the dirt like a beetle in some sadistic kid's bug collection. Whitefeather had caught the other one. McCreary, far out of earshot, knew what was happening: The big Comanche was drawing his knife across the Mexican's throat, but whispering words of a hunter's respect into his ear as blood flowed from his body like a sacred stream.

  "I'm sorry, sir," Hawker said. He looked seriously dejected. "I've never missed in my life. Too close quarters, I guess. But that's no ex
cuse."

  McCreary patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right. I never make mistakes, you know?"

  "You're a good man, Capt. McCreary," Hawker said softly. "I won't let you down again."

  "I know you won't," McCreary said. "Let's join the others."

  Whitefeather and LaRoy were already at the girls. "It's all right," Whitefeather said to the tallest one. "We're Americans, like you!"

  "That's right, miss," LaRoy said. "Head up that road. There's an American base not ten miles away. They'll take you in and keep you safe. You'll see!"

  Here came Bill Dolan, running toward them, with Ida Grange on his heels, holding her skirt up from the ground. They'd dropped their tools and looked relieved to see them. Actually, that wasn't right. They didn't look relieved. They looked scared.

  That wasn't right, either. They looked angry.

  Dolan and Ida yelled incomprehensibly. LaRoy tried to calm them.

  McCreary arrived at the group. Sure enough, that was a red star on Dolan's cap. And why was Dolan yelling at them… in Russian?

  "Chto vy delali?" Dolan cried out. "Eti soldaty byli nashi druz'ya! Vy uzhasno bandity!"

  "This doesn't make any sense," Whitefeather said, drying his knife on his fatigues.

  Just then, fifty Russian soldiers rose from the summer wheat, surrounding them. Each soldier brandished an AK-47. The rifles' magazines curled toward McCreary's team like black fangs. A faint breeze blew, hissing through the grain menacingly. McCreary felt awash in an ocean of dread. Even the wheat had turned against them.

  "Captain McCreary," an accented voice said from behind a tree. They all turned. Out stepped a tall, Russian officer. He wore plain, pressed olive-colored combat fatigues. Only the three pale stars on his shoulders betrayed his rank. "Thank you for joining us on such a fine morning as this."

  "Who the hell are you?" LaRoy asked.

  "I am General Yuri Azov of the Soviet Army," the general said. "And you will do well to check your tone with a superior officer, Private LaRoy, of Lewisburg, West Virginia."

  "How do you know my name?" LaRoy asked.

  The general ignored him. McCreary dropped his M-16 on the ground as the general and two soldiers approached. He motioned to the others to do the same. They obeyed—except for Hawker, who kept his sniper's rifle slung over his shoulder. Good old Hawker, McCreary thought. A sniper to his dying day.

  "How I know is not important," the Russian general said. "Not nearly as important as the honors we will bestow upon Lieutenant Hawkerov … of the KGB."

  The sniper that McCreary had known as Hawker clicked his heels, stood at attention, and gave the general a crisp salute.

  "Lt. Hawkerov," the general said, "thank you for bringing Captain McCreary to enjoy the benefits of our worker's paradise. And thank you for delivering my note, as well! Such a brave, loyal son of Kiev!"

  "Hawker!" McCreary cried softly. The sniper glanced at McCreary for the briefest of moments. What was that in his eyes? Was it shame? Were Communists even capable of such an emotion?

  "I am happy to do my duty for the Motherland," Hawker said in English.

  "As am I," the general said.

  Azov raised his pistol. McCreary recognized it as a Nagant M1895. A seven-shot, gas-sealed revolver, issued only to the top Communist Party members. Azov was the real deal. And he demonstrated it by shooting the sniper in the chest. Hawker—Hawkerov—crumpled like the traitor he was.

  McCreary's mind spun. "W-why?" he asked, just as a rifle butt struck the back of his head.

  McCreary regained consciousness, pain glowing bright yellow in his skull. He tried to move his arms, but couldn't. They were stretched behind his back. He opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through tall windows. McCreary recognized the office of Mayor Todd Houston. Same oak paneling, same fancy desk the size of a Mississippi River barge. But the walls were adorned with posters, of proud workers facing the sky under the same backward Cyrillic letters that Hawker had translated the day before—

  Hawker. Goddammit, Hawker!

  Whitefeather and LaRoy were similarly seated, their arms tied behind their chairs. They were awake. LaRoy had two black eyes. The scrappy little private had apparently tried to fight them off. Whitefeather didn't appear to have a scratch on him. The Russians probably knew better than to tangle with the big Indian.

  Other than two Russian guards at the door, they were alone.

  McCreary scanned the room. His eyes stopped on a huge oil painting, five feet high and three feet wide, hanging on the wall behind the desk.

  The painting looked like something out of the 1700s. It showed a blonde woman in a blue dress, her hair tied behind her head, standing in a field of flowers. A basket of blossoms hung from her elbow. In the distance, a Russian church with three onion domes sat under yellow clouds and a red, setting sun. McCreary couldn't take his eyes off the woman.

  Sunny!

  The door to the office opened. General Azov wore a more ceremonial uniform, whatever it was that the Russians called their Class A's. His boots shone and thumped on the old oak floor, every step a gunshot.

  "I see you're awake, Capt. McCreary," the General said.

  "You seem to know me quite well," McCreary intoned. His skull throbbed with every syllable.

  "I've known all about you for years." Azov said, pulling an olive-colored folder off his desk and opening it. "Captain Jacob McCreary, United States Air Force… born on March 2, Texas Independence Day … Eagle Scout… joined the Air Force's Pararescue division for training, but forced out with a knee injury obtained when rescuing a comrade from a tangled parachute line. … Reassigned to the 91st Missile Wing, where you performed with distinction."

  "Hey, how do you know all that?" LaRoy asked.

  Azov continued. "Before assuming command of this glorious invasion of your … doomed empire, I was second-in-command of the KGB. It was my job to know about every American missile officer. I know every detail, Capt. McCreary. I've followed your career. And your personal life. I was amazed at the similarities of our ambitions. Of our character. And most importantly, the fact that our wives appeared so… identical. So naturally, I studied you. And her. With great interest."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" McCreary asked.

  "Oh, Captain. We shall deal with that soon enough," Azov said, "We are discussing a clash of civilizations. Mighty empires, meeting on the field of battle! Our Chinese allies, tired of being a third-rate power. Mother Russia, impatient that it has taken seventy years to bring capitalism to its knees. And so, we have Chinese Plan Chang Alpha 7. To erase the threat posed by the American nuclear arsenal. And it worked with 99.9999 percent accuracy."

  Azov walked to Mayor Houston's liquor cabinet. McCreary remembered the cabinet from the day he'd made Eagle Scout at 17, the day Sunny had given him that chaste kiss on his cheek. That day, the Mayor had toasted young Jake McCreary with a shot of whisky. The Russkie general had replaced the mayor's Kentucky gold with bottle after bottle of Stoli.

  The general poured himself a glass. "Our plan was foolproof, except for you. You, Capt. McCreary, commander of the only American nuclear assets that were able to leave their silos on time. You, who drilled your men to check and recheck their systems at all hours. You, whose computers were constantly resetting themselves, as per your orders. And when our blessed day arrived, it was your men who possessed the necessary reaction times." The tone of his voice darkened. "Still, of the five Minuteman III missiles that you launched, four were destroyed by our laser-based missile shield—"

  "Missile shield!" McCreary muttered. "You got Washington to sign ours away in that last treaty!"

  "Backstabbers!" Whitefeather said. "We Americans always honor our treaties!"

  "Be that as it may, gentlemen," Azov continued, "The only surviving Minuteman III missile—serial No. 8534-Dash-A—was enough to destroy its target: my village of Fertile Worker Fields, fifteen kilometers east of Kiev."

  "That's ludicrous," McCreary said. "Americans never target
civilians. The Dash-A was aimed at a radar station—"

  "—less than a kilometer away from my village—" Azov turned and gazed at the oil painting above the fireplace "—and my beloved Svetlana."

  McCreary lowered his head and studied the planks between his boots.

  "The day I assumed command of our hidden forces in Laredo," Azov said, "waiting for our orders to invade the United States, I learned that our motherland had escaped unscathed—except for the missile that you launched. Imagine having everything you loved wiped out by the treacherous, glowing heart of an American atom."

  Azov, still holding his glass, walked slowly across the floor to where McCreary sat.

  "When I heard from a minor KGB operative, Lt. Hawkerov, that you had survived the strike on your base, I was seized with anger, a thirst for revenge—and a clarity I have not known since I was a young man. I made it my duty to take from you what you took from me."

  "No…" McCreary whispered.

  "Conquering this sector of Texas was easy," Azov said. "I was then able to locate your hometown, Capt. McCreary. To find your beautiful wife. To make her and all of the members of this … beautiful community… the beacon of Socialism that my home had been!"

  "You Communist bastard!" McCreary spat.

  Azov chuckled. "Do your American friends working in the fields not look happy? Do they not look fulfilled? A little hypnosis here, a little torture there… but at the heart of it all, Communism is simply a fancy word for ‘sharing.' And you have been sharing your beautiful Sunny—or should I say, my Svetlana—with me for the past three months."

  His voice dropped further, into an oily and sultry tone. "Her skin… so very soft on these … lonely Texas nights."

  "Nooooooo!" McCreary screamed.

  "If my Moscow command knew what I was doing in this town," Azov said, "they might strip me of command. All they know is that I have taken Wrangler Plains—I mean, Fertile Worker Fields—as my command post. A staging ground for a thrust into the breadbasket of the future United Socialist States of America. But the inspired loyalty of our new comrades, my taking of a field wife—this is my personal effort."