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Special Ops - Terminating the Snake
By: Jim 'Old Guy' Hume Date: Special Ops: Village People Snake lowered his field glasses and grinned at Rommel. “Sounds like the boys are giving the Yankees something to think about.” Rommel frowned. He hadn’t heard much AK firing before the explosion and none at all after. A small plume of smoke began rising above the trees. He shrugged. “Whatever is going on, it looks like the Americans are at least two kilometers north of us. You ready to lob a few rounds at them?” Snake nodded. “Whenever you feel it’s right. You think it’ll do any good?” “Maybe. It would help if those yahoos would call in. I could use them to direct the fire.” “Fire a few rounds,” said Snake. “They might call in when they see the shells impacting.” Rommel turned and waved at the tank commanders relaxing on top of the turrets. “I hope those bastards remember how to fire the guns,” he muttered. “What?” “Nothing. I think we ought to get off to the side - over to the right there.” The two men moved off along the stream. The gunner in Frisco One popped up out of the hot turret. Grinning at the tank commander, he said, “What’s she doing now, Pablo?” “Stay down, you idiot!” answered Pablo. “The Snake is right across the river!” The gunner slid further out of the turret and looked around. “He’s leaving. Hah! Where is the lovely Estrellita? I lost her in the periscope.” “Over there,” replied the commander, “beside the big tree.” The gunner sucked in his breath. “If that shirt was any shorter . . .” He fell silent, awestruck. Pablo nodded. “She must be hot. Every few minutes she takes a little dip in the water. Keeps everything wet, I guess.” He chuckled. “Bastard,” said the gunner conversationally. “I’m sweating inside this pig and you’re sitting here watching the water nymph.” “I’m sweating,” said Pablo. “If she keeps flapping that top around, I think I’ll die right here.” “Speaking of flapping, why is the Colonel hopping around up there? Over to the right.” Pablo stood up and waved back at the Colonel. “Arm the gun,” he ordered, “It’s time for us to send greetings to the gringos.” “Is the young lady out of the way?” asked the gunner. “Yes,” said Pablo, “and so is Snake and the Colonel.” The gunner made a rude noise. “To hell with them! Just watch out for the girl.” He absently turned the ammunition selector switch back and forth, watching Estrellita through the periscope. Sighing, he activated the arming lever. The robot arm snatched a round from the storage bin and slipped it into the chamber. Other automatic devices closed the breech and finished the loading sequence. The ready light flashed on. “Okay.” The gunner called up through the hatch, “We’re ready. You got the gun aimed right?” Pablo waved his hand casually and slipped his helmet on. “I set it up an hour ago. Just fire the gun.” He wanted to see Estrellita’s reaction when the cannon went off. “Okay. Fire in the hole!” The gunner jerked the trigger. Over in Frisco Two, the unexpected blast from Frisco One caused the gunner to snap awake, kicking the trigger of his own cannon. The following combination of events ensued: Frisco One – Since the selector switch was set to the Cyrillic equivalent of ‘beehive’, the robot arm obediently loaded close-combat round - an explosive core wrapped with several kilometers of kinked wire. After an uninspiring blast, said wire erupted from the barrel as a lethal cloud of metal bits. Unfortunately for Pablo, the range of such bits is nil. The slope leading up to the village and the still undamaged huts in front of Frisco One disappeared in a cloud of dust. The slope, though torn a little, was still intact. The huts vaporized. Frisco Two – The commander of Frisco Two intended to fire along the same trajectory as Frisco One; he laid the gun generally in the direction of north and left the final adjustment for later. Then he returned to watching Estrellita. The HE round, correctly loaded by the robot arm, exited the barrel with a satisfying ‘BANG!’ and struck a tree at the top of the slope. The projectile went through its detonation sequence beginning at the tree and ending in the center of the village. Estrellita – Although expecting the tank cannon to be noisy, the combination of the odd pop from Pablo’s tank and the loud double explosion when the other tank fired, caused her to overbalance and topple into the stream. Pablo would have gotten an excellent view of her chest when she stood up - if he had been looking. Pablo – Instead of ogling Estrellita, as he intended, Pablo was staring at the dust kicked up by his gun. The gunner poked his head out of the turret. Both men pondered the disappearance of the huts in their line of fire. They also noticed that fires had broken out, both where the huts had been and in the center of the village where their compatriot had fired. The tree, neatly sawed off by the 120mm tank round, fell into the river with a splintering crash. Nobody paid much attention. The tank crewmen contemplated the situation for a full thirty seconds, then took off along the trail to the south. Agricultural careers beckoned. Rommel stood to one side while his employer watched his precious village burn to the ground. At some point, the forest fire and the village fire merged. By then the two men were some distance away, across the stream. The workers from the command post and the underground drug lab splashed across the river and headed for their homes. The fire and smoke made the air in the underground facilities unbreatheable. Snake was hoarse from cursing. “Come on, boss,” said Rommel. “Let’s go home. We can get things back in order when the fire cools off. Tomorrow or the next day.” Silent now, Snake followed him along the trail to the east. ****** Estrellita watched Rommel and Snake wander off down the trail. Smiling grimly she extracted a small black box from her ammo belt. Extending the antenna, she held the device at arms length and pressed a button. She then hurled it across the stream, into the village. Humming a nonsense tune, she started north along the east bank. A black helicopter buzzed into view when she had gone no more than half a kilometer. Walking into the river, she waved her arms. A minute later she was reclining in the plush leather seat and sipping a beer. The pilot glanced back and gave her a thumbs up. Soon they were far above the jungle, heading for the coast. ****** Cobra leaned over into the cockpit of the recovery helo and pointed at the black chopper flying steadily away. Keying the intercom, he asked, “Is that one of ours? They come in with you?” The pilot shook his head, “No. You don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. All God’s children don’t want to know.” “Okay, I guess nobody here cares anyway.” He watched the black helicopter for a few seconds, then laughed, “So who do you like for the Super Bowl?” ****** “Grackle 21,” said the controller, “Grackle 21, the word is ‘smiling bastard’. I say again, ‘smiling bastard’, over.” “Ah . . . Grackle 21 copies. Out.” The controller nodded to the short general. “He’s on his way, sir.” “Right,” said the general. He grinned bleakly. “Where you from, sergeant?” “Ah . . . Omaha, sir.” The controller was flustered. She wondered if the old coot was going to ask her out. “Well,” said the ‘old coot’, without raising his voice, “If you ever want to see Omaha again, you’ll forget you ever saw me or ever talked to Grackle 21.” The controller laughed. “I’ve been doing this stuff a long time, General. You’d be surprised how poor my memory is. Besides,” she added, “I don’t ever want to see Omaha again anyway.” The general grinned, friendlier this time. “Thank you. Can I buy you a beer? Later?” She shook her head, “Sorry, General. I’m going out with the pilot of Grackle 21. Tonight.” She smiled.“ If I saw you this evening, it might interfere with my forgetting your face and name.” This time the general chuckled. “Make sure you forget Grackle's name too.” She shrugged. “I only know him as Grackle 21, sir.” They both laughed out loud. ****** Grackle 21 hummed a little tune as he set up the weapon. He thought it was ‘The Bear Went Over the Mountain’, but it wasn’t. He had a terrible ear for music. Within Grackle’s aircraft, various automated devices performed their choreographed sequences and little displays in the cockpit assured him that everything was ready and willing. At the proper time he flipped back a red cover and tripped the switch. After that it was all automatic. He sat quietly, humming the tune that wasn’t what he thought it was. ****** Rommel and Snake turned together. “What the hell is that?” asked Snake. “I don’t know.” A large cylindrical device hung from a huge parachute. The opening parachute had attracted their attention. The thing was dropping into the center of the village, where a few flames were still visible. “Crap!” said Rommel, with sudden understanding. He grabbed Snake and pushed him to the ground along the trail. Neither had a chance to say anything before the world exploded. In the aftermath, Rommel staggered out of the brush onto what remained of the trail. He coughed a few times. Dust and smoke lay over everything. All the trees in the area were snapped off about 15 feet above the ground. He heard more coughing and thrashing. Snake pushed his way out of the tangled trees. They stood staring at one another for a few seconds. “Fuel air bomb,” croaked Rommel. “What? Fuel air, what?” rasped Snake. “Propane gas. Ignition device. Very powerful.” Rommel giggled. He couldn’t hear very well and it felt like someone had pummeled him carefully with a large club. But . . . he was alive. “My lab! It wouldn’t have hurt my lab! Would it?” Rommel coughed again. “Lab’s gone. Forget it. That type of bomb is made for smashing things like that. Smashes ‘em flat.” “What will I do,” wailed Snake. “My customers! My dealers!” He glanced around in sudden fear. “They’ll be after me.” Rommel clapped him on the back. “Come on. They won’t even hear about it for a day or so. You’ve got plenty of time.” Snake nodded and allowed the Colonel to lead him along the trail. They had to work their way around smashed trees and other rubble for the first few hundred yards, then the way was clear. Rommel left his boss at the entrance to his house. “Take it easy, Snake,” he advised. “Get your stuff together and take off. I know you have exit plans. Use one.” Still in shock, Snake just nodded. Two burly men in dark suits shouldered past as he left Snake's gate. A few seconds later a series of shots rang out. Rommel began to sweat. Maybe they didn’t have as much time as he thought. Footsteps sounded behind him. No use to run. He turned to face the men. The first one stalked by without a word. The second handed Rommel a business card. “An offer of employment, Colonel.” He touched his hat, then followed his companion out of sight. Rommel didn’t look at the card -- just tucked it in his pocket. Then he began to breathe again. Carlos waded into the river and washed his face. Orlando lay groaning on the bank. Miguel was sitting beside him staring at the vast mushroom shaped cloud hanging over the village. No, thought Carlos, where the village used to be. What remained was a blackened depression, rimmed with smoking rubble. “Well,” said Carlos as he flopped down next to Orlando. “I think it’s time to go back to farming.” “Not me,” said Orlando, shaking his head, “I’m going to help my cousin with his still.” “Popo’s still? That stuff is poison!” “No,” said Orlando, with surprising energy, “anything that does what we’ve seen it do must be useful for something! Think about it, El Presidente.” Carlos nodded. “You’re right. Maybe we should all go see Popo.” “Not so fast,” said Orlando, “first we must see to Miguel’s girl.” Carlos laughed. “Man,” said Miguel, “I told you. It only happened that one time.” Epilogue: Pantywaist City Big Guy: (sound of a door) Crap! Hillary! What the hell are you doing here? SSA#1: She came in the back way, sir. Sorry. Herself: Shut up, you imbecile! Big Guy: Hey! You can’t . . . Herself: Not you! Him! Your pet Secret Service Agent man. Big Guy: Oh, well . . . okay. SSA #1: Sir! Big Guy: Go on outta here. We’ll talk about it later. (sound of door) Herself: Send out the slut, too! Big Guy: Dammit! She’s not a slut . . . she’s a . . . uh . . . an . . . intern. Herself: I rest my case. Get the slut out. Big Guy: Go ahead . . . um . . . what’s yer name? Never mind. Go. (sound of door) Herself: That’s better. Now we can talk. Big Guy: I hate these little talks. What is it this time? Herself: Your little mission to get rid of the Snake. Big Guy: How’d you . . . I mean . . . what mission? Herself: (laughing) Knock it off. You’re the worst liar in the entire US. Big Guy: Hah! You’re wrong! The voters believed me. About those women. They did! Herself: (sighs) No they didn’t, you big goof. They just don’t care. Big Guy: Well . . . it’s the same thing. Ain’t it? Herself: Never mind. Let’s get back to the mission. Big Guy: Um . . . what mission? Herself: Okay, play your little games. I just wanted to tell you that it failed. Big Guy: Well, hell, I already know that . . . ah . . . I mean . . . what mission? Herself: Have it your way. (sighs) Anyway, my special task force took care of it. Big Guy: Sure they did. (snaps fingers) What’s the name of that mythical force of yours? Herself: Something you know nothing about. FOREPLAY. Big Guy: Yeah. I’ve heard of that somewhere. Herself: FOREign Policy LAboratorY. She drew out the acronym in the dust on a table. Big Guy: Okay. Foreplay. Sounds fun. Herself: We sent in a bomber and flattened Snakes drug lab. Big Guy: Hey! You can’t do that! Those bombers belong to me! Herself: Nevertheless. It’s done. And his cronies should have bumped off Snake by now. Big Guy: (silence) Herself: What have you got to say? Big Guy: What mission? END |