Operation Zulu: Dos Page 12

  “You run in, Top?” Hale asked.

  “Sure did.” He grinned. “I figured a few extra miles are good for the soul.”

  “Fuck me.” Morgan felt like a slouch.

  “How far was that?” Cross asked, glancing up.

  “Ten miles.” Kurtz grinned, skin tight across his sunburned face.

  “You’re an animal,” Cross said, standing up.

  “Ten miles?” Hale looked at his dirty dive watch. “You sprint all the way?

  “Yes.” Kurtz tried to look serious but instead he broke out laughing. “Hell, no. On the last run before the LZ, command sent a hummer for the Captain and me. They have new intel on the OP. We need to form up back at the classroom.” He shook his head and started to walk off the tarmac. “Run all the way here… Shit, Hale, I know you Air Farce guys think highly of us but shit…” He glanced at the other soldiers. “Let’s go people. We have a meet back at the classrooms. Let’s go!”

  BIRTHDAY SURPRISE

  CREECH AFB,

  NEVADA

  “Take a seat,” Captain Galvan said, standing behind the podium at the front of the classroom.

  “I know you’re all hungry and tired, but we have some new intel,” he said to the thirty-seven soldiers as they planted themselves heavily in the cheap vinyl chairs. Morgan and Hale sat up front, their packs and rifles against the wall. Once everyone was seated, Galvan took a swig from a half-empty water bottle and wiped his mouth.

  “Out-fucking-standing job on the training today. Not a slacker in the group.” He looked around at the gathered unit. “That being said, we have a go for tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes!” Vanelli excitedly fist bumped Duley. “Finally, some action.”

  “Glad that excites you, Sergeant?” Galvan asked, leaning forward against the podium.

  “Hell, a crack in the sidewalk excites Vanelli,” Redwood said, causing the room to break out in laughter.

  “The smell of three day old fish gets Vanelli excited,” Cross chimed in.

  “A blow up doll that looks like his momma gets him excited,” Doc Kegy added.

  “That's just called a blow up doll.” Morgan smirked.

  “Hey, my mom’s a saint,” Vanelli pleaded.

  “Yeah, Saint P—” Duley started.

  “Can that shit!” Sergeant Kurtz growled."Shut your fucking foul mouth Duley!"

  “All right, all right.” Galvan raised his hands. “Thank you, Sergeant Kurtz. Now, I want to remind you all this is some deep shit we are wading into. Colonel Hamil has been able to talk the powers that be into rethinking leaving us without any back-up. We have a couple of Blackhawks on loan from the Air Force in case we can’t get out. The twenty of you that don’t make this mission will be on the Blackhawks as our Quick Reaction Force.”

  “Thank God,” Duley said, a little relieved.

  “The mission is still to grab Camacho and bring him back to the States. We have an insider who will help with entry into the compound.” He tapped the clicker in his hand and an image appeared on the screen behind him. “This is our insider. Do not kill. We have fresh intel saying it was a rival cartel responsible for the VP’s daughter's death, but that info is a load of bullshit. The Camacho cartel planted the evidence to throw us off.” He clicked off the slide projector. “There’s also a photo of our insider in your folders.” Galvan nodded at the paperwork in front of the soldiers. “Keep it with you. Per command, we are supposed to leave the rat in place.”

  “Our own little drug lord?” Morgan asked.

  “Not our problem, Sergeant Morgan, we don’t deal with the politics, just bad guys,” the captain said flatly as he clicked on a layout of Camacho’s compound. “These two gates will be unlocked and lightly guarded. Camacho should be in the courtyard area. Everyone but the target and our insider are fair game.”

  “Thirty bad guys on security?” Hale asked as he swirled a Styrofoam cup full of lukewarm coffee.

  “Yes, that hasn’t changed per our intel. There should be at least forty guests. All bad guys so don’t hesitate to put them down. Rules of engagement are at your discretion on this one.”

  “We should be expecting around seventy bodies at the compound, all with a green light”—Morgan sat up straight in his chair—“except Camacho?”

  “Except Camacho,” Galvan said. “We need him, and the rat, alive. Remember people, this is to show these scum bags that they can’t come over here and kill U.S. citizens without there being a consequence. How can we keep our people safe if we allow these dipshits to conduct their evil deeds on our soil?”

  “Sounds good to me.” Morgan nodded.

  “Tomorrow morning at approximately 1000 hours we will take a chopper to USS Boxer which is just off the coast of Southern California. We will then, at approximately 2100 hours, board an unmarked Sea Stallion to our target near Passado, Mexico.” The Captain took another pull from his water bottle. “Assigned will be Bravo team—Sergeant Morgan, Hale, Cross, Johnson, Vanelli, Kegy, Redwood, Pushkin, Amatuzo, and Travis.”

  “Sweet,” Pushkin said, a little too loudly and enthusiastically.

  “Relax, junior.” Cross smirked. “Save it for the OP.”

  “Leading will be Alpha team —myself, Sergeant Kurtz, Cushing, Ramirez, Cassiday, Ducat, Smith, Meyers, Chaffey, and Kubicek.”

  “Kubicek?” Morgan said under his breath. The sergeant glanced over at Hale, who slowly shook his head.

  “Charlie and Delta squads will be the Quick Reaction Force and headed by Sergeant Skelton.”

  “More like ‘Rescue Force’.” Skelton chuckled.

  “You can rescue this, Sergeant,” Vanelli said, grabbing his own crotch.

  “I think there is a pair of tweezers in my kit, Vanelli, I’m sure we can rescue that teeny, little weenie of yours from your big old hand.” Skelton gave Herrick, who sat next to him, a fist bump.

  Galvan cleared his throat and continued. “This OP goes anywhere near plan, we shouldn’t need Charlie or Delta. Though it is good to know we have a QRF nearby if we do need them.” He leaned against the podium. “Camacho doesn’t know it, but he’s about to have his ass handed to him by the citizens of the good ole United States of America.”

  IT WAS ONLY ONCE

  CAMACHO'S COMPOUND

  “Is it true, Blanca?” Salazar asked the young girl in a low voice. Both he and the dark haired teenager stood in a darkened alcove near the courtyard. The cartel lieutenant looked around for any other people; seeing none, he looked back down at the shorter Blanca. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” The girl pulled away from Salazar’s grip and stepped back a few feet.

  “Are you pregnant with El Jefe’s baby?” He quickly closed the space between them.

  “Of course not.” Blanca laughed almost too loudly. Salazar nervously looked from side to side, making sure they were out of earshot of anyone.

  “Quiet.” He put up a finger. “Then why is the butcher saying such things about you?”

  “I am pregnant.” Blanca leaned closer to the big man and said lowly, “It is not his child.”

  “What?” Salazar frowned then grabbed Blanca by the arm and pulled her closer into the back of the alcove. “Whose is it?”

  “If I tell you, hermano, you will kill him. I must let Roberto think it’s his or he will kill us both,” she whispered.

  “Blanca,”—he covered her mouth and glanced quickly then turned back to the girl—“what are you doing? El Jefe would feed you to his tigers if he found out. This is stupid. Foolish.”

  “It was only once, brother.” She pulled his hand away from her mouth. “It was an accident.”

  “Blanca, who was it?”

  “Brother, I cannot.”

  “Ay, Blanca. What would Papa say, huh?” He slapped her lightly on the side of the head, raising some of her long, black hair. “Foolish, foolish girl.”

  “Please, you must say nothing.” She wiped the beginning of tears from her eyes. “Please.”

 
; “Blanca, this is a dangerous game.” He took a deep breath and let it go. “We are both in too deep now. You must never say anything to anyone. Sister, who is the father?”

  “I can’t…” she pleaded

  “You must tell me, Blanca. I promise on Mama’s grave, wherever that is, that I will not tell.” He sighed, watching his little sister sob. “Tell me, Blanca, please.”

  “I am not anything like Mama,” she said, looking up at her brother. “Do not judge me.”

  “I know. Mama was a whore; you are nothing but a stupid little girl.” He put an arm around her shoulder. “Now tell me, little sister, who was it?”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.” He crossed his heart with his free hand.

  “It was Domingo,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “Domingo?” Salazar let go of Blanca and pounded his fist against the alcove adobe wall. “Domingo, really?”

  “It was only once. I was lonely and he was there for me. It was only once. Please.”

  “Domingo.” He shook his head. “That is one step above Dirty Sanchez. Sister, sister… Dio mios. Who else have you told?”

  “Just Hana.”

  “Hana Gomez?”

  “Si.”

  “Okay, little sister. Tell no one else. Don’t even say anything to Domingo.”

  “But—”

  “You want to live?” he asked menacingly. Blanca just stared back up at him with big brown eyes and nodded. “Good. I will handle this.”

  “Hola, Salazar… Blanca.” Camacho’s shrill voice came from behind. Startled brother and sister both quickly turned to see the drug lord standing several feet away from them in the courtyard. “My two favorite Salazars. Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, yes.” Blanca nodded, wiping her eyes.

  “We were just talking about our blessed Papa.” He slid a brotherly arm around Blanca’s shoulders. “How we wish he was here for the good news.”

  “Ah yes, that is indeed sad. Come, Blanca,”—he extended a hand—“walk with me and I will tell you all about our plans for my mama’s party tomorrow. It will take your mind off such trifling thoughts.” He grinned.

  “Si.” Blanca nodded and looked back at Salazar as she stepped over to Camacho. Her brother just smiled and gave a curt nod.

  “Later, El Jefe… Blanca.”

  I HAVE A BRAND NEW PAIR OF ROLLER SKATES

  CAMACHO'S COMPOUND

  Black scribbled like a man possessed in his small leather bound journal. Smiling and with a flourish, he finished writing a few sentences then gave them a quick once over. Satisfied, he snapped the small diary closed and carefully placed it into the top drawer of his desk. Black locked the drawer then tucked the key into the front pocket of his slacks. As he glanced around his temporary office space, he knew his time here was getting short. The muzak version of Melanie’s Brand New Key played lightly in the background and Black found himself humming along to its peppy tune. There was a light rap on his office door.

  “Come,” Black said over the muzak. The door swung open and Doctor Volkov stepped inside carrying a manila folder.

  “I love this song.” He used his ink pen and pointed toward the speaker on the wall behind him. “It was big in Ukraine.” Volkov grinned and started to sing. “I got a brand new roller skate you…” The Russian warbled, butchering the lyrics. Black shook his head, annoyed, and quickly moved to stop the blasphemy of his beloved wordless music.

  “Alexi, you been at the vodka already?”

  “Da,”—Volkov stifled a belch and set the folder down on his boss’s spotless desk—“there is a party soon, no?”

  “Tomorrow, but I guess it’s never too early for vodka is it, Alexi?”

  “Never.” Volkov smiled and started to again butcher the song. “Sometimes I think you avoiding me, I’m okay dokay but you got somethin’ I need…”

  “Alexi, is that lipstick on your face?” Black said, trying to rein him in. “You been messing with the local señoritas again?”

  “Da.” Volkov wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his lab coat and smiled nervously. “You caught me, Ian. You should try it, might help you unwind.”

  “What is this?” Black jabbed his index finger onto the manila folder.

  “Sorry, Ian, it’s been a busy… anyway, that is report of shipment to the Netherlands.”

  “Is it gone?” Black said, eagerly flipping the folder open.

  “Da, yes. We are almost done with the Japanese batch.”

  “Very good, very good,” he said, going over the shipment report. Satisfied with the numbers, Black closed the folder and shoved it back toward Volkov. “Looks perfect. Anything else, Alexi?”

  “I had another lab tech and a security guard bitten today. I locked them up with the others. We are running out of our own staff.”

  “Who was it?”

  “The biologist, Fisher, and Paco something-or-other.”

  “Inconvenient.” Black drummed his fingers across the desk top. “How many is that?”

  “Twenty all together; they are locked up in the cells next to the reanimated. It’s only a matter of time before they turn too. That could be big problem, Ian.”

  “Well,”—the millionaire leaned back in the rented chair—“we will be done here as soon as the Japanese order is finished. Do me a favor, Alexi, download all the data on a thumb drive for me will you? I assume you are working on some kind of anti-virus?”

  “Sure, Ian.” The Russian seemed to suddenly sober up. “Are we leaving?”

  “Soon.” Black gave him a cold smile. “I think Señor Camacho is growing weary of sharing our business venture.”

  “Ian?”

  “Not to worry, Alexi. It will be an amicable separation.” He scooped up the folder and stood up. Black ran his hands down his slacks, straightening the creases. “Enjoy the party tomorrow. It’s a birthday party for the Butcher’s mommy. You guys celebrate birthdays where you’re from, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course you do, any excuse to drink.” He tapped the folder against the scientist chest. “Get me that data as soon as possible. It’s very important.” He glanced down at the big dial on his watch. “I’m going to be indisposed for a couple of hours so unless you have something life threatening, don’t bother me.”

  “Do you think Camacho is going to kill us?” Volkov quietly asked the other man.

  “No.” Black grinned shark teeth. “Let me handle this, Alexi.”

  “What about the reanimated? The zom… zombies?”

  “I will handle that too, Alexi. Don’t worry your vodka-addled brain. Now I must be going.” He felt the darkness start to well up inside him. “One more thing,”—he had opened the door to step out but turned back to face the Russian—“no more singing. Your dear mother may tell you it’s beautiful but you just suck, Alexi.”

  THERE WAS A DOG IN THE ROAD

  SOMEWHERE IN MEXICO

  “Where are we, Leeland?” Tanya whined as the big man fumbled with an old gas station map.

  Baylie looked over her shoulder into the back seat to see the two studying the unfolded and outdated chart. The driver noticed Leeland was staring so intently at the paper that she thought he must have been hoping a pair of boobs was going to suddenly appear. Shaking her head, amused, Baylie glanced over at Ricky, who was drinking out of another bottle of cold syrup. The Brit grinned and wiped the blue liquid from his lips.

  “Want a taste, luv?” He held the half empty bottle out to her.

  “Ricky, knock that shit off.” She shoved the container back at him. “You’re going to be so out of it when we get to Leeland’s amigo’s compound they’re going to tell you or all of us to fuck off.”

  “I’m fine, Baylie,” he slurred with a goofy smile. “If we ever find the fookin’ place, I’ll be good.”

  “You guys are all assholes,” she said, frustrated. “We’re in the land of all-you-can-buy drugs, why guzzle that stuff?”

&nb
sp; “I like the taste.” Ricky smirked; his eyes looked like two piss holes in the snow.

  “It’s gonna kill ya, Ricky.” Baylie shook her head. “We’ll end up leaving your skinny body on the road somewhere… wherever the hell we are,” she said, frustrated.

  “Hey now.” Leeland put down the map. “I know where we’re going, Baylie.”

  “Oh yeah?” The driver turned all the way around in her seat to face the big man. “Where are we now?”

  “Well,”—Leeland grabbed up the map again and fumbled with it trying to find their location—“we are right here.”

  “And where the hell is that?”

  “Fuck, Baylie.” Leeland crumpled up the map and angrily tossed it down at Tanya’s feet. “I have no clue where we’re at.”

  “Awesome.” Baylie spun around to face the front of the car. “Dipshit.”

  “Hey!” Leeland protested from the back.

  “Well,”—Ricky took a big swig of the cough syrup—“guess we aren’t gettin' there anytime soon. What’s on the radio, luv?”

  “Nothing.” Baylie shoved one of her dad’s classic rock cd’s into the player. Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper quickly flowed through the speakers.

  “Right, right. More cowbell, luv. I dig it.” Ricky chuckled as he started into a cough syrup induced groove.

  “Got anything from this decade?” Leeland asked, still pouting.

  “Here, let me see it,” Tanya said, scooping up the map and unwadding it. After a few minutes she dropped the wrinkled mess in her lap. “Baylie take 49 here for about fifty miles then there should be a turnoff at Las Venos.”

  “Finally,” Baylie said, cranking over the Impalas’ big engine.

  “We’re about a hundred and seventy miles south of our destination,” Tanya said, smoothing out the damaged map.

  “How did you figure that out?” Leeland asked, open-mouthed.