Josiah P. Snake drummed his fingers on the table. He hated waiting. A quick check on the time confirmed his foreboding. Something had gone wrong. With a heavy sigh, he got up and headed outside. His new crocodile leather, rhino-soled combat boots squeaked annoyingly. He stopped while still under the hut roof to adjust his wide brimmed ‘Indiana Jones’ hat and don his aviator-style sunglasses. Twitching his butternut safari jacket (Frank’s Jacket Emporium, $99.95) into position, Snake strode purposefully toward the command post.
The village lay on a low bluff, north of the confluence of two small streams. Dark skinned natives moved about the dirt streets, giving the place a pastoral appearance. Snake forced a smile to his face as he passed two of the locals. He had to pay through the nose to keep these people around, just to make the place look authentic. If he’d realized how much it was going to cost, he might have opted to build the village as a vacation place for American bumpkins and their brats. To do that, though, he would have had to find someplace else for the underground drug lab. Storage for the weapons would have been a problem as well. Sighing in frustration, he shook his head. Running a well-organized criminal operation was turning out to be difficult.
Snake’s attention was arrested by the appearance of two young women walking toward the river. Each was clad in a short wrap, which left the torso bare. It was part of his contract with the local actors guild and damn well worth it, he decided. Half naked women were easy on the eyes and neither UN inspectors nor sundry law enforcement officials were ever able to ignore them. These two were healthy specimens indeed. He stopped to watch them make their way down to the river. They tossed the wraps aside and waded in, which both pleased and displeased him. He liked what he saw, but knew that the elaborate charade was only possible because of the very efficient and highly expensive filtration equipment he maintained up and down stream. The water was clean and the piranha were kept out. It was definitely a mixed blessing. Snarling wordlessly, he moved on.
The command post guard saluted casually and flipped the entry switch. Snake nodded to the guard and waited as the camouflaged elevator rose from the dirt floor. A few moments later he entered the crowded command post, thirty feet below ground level.
Colonel Edwin Rommel, a gruff German ex-Stasi goon, met him as he stepped from the elevator. Rommel was the sort of man dear to Snake’s black heart. The German had a lamentable weakness for nubile young ladies, whiskey, and large sums of money. Just now he was looking worried. He pointed at the map hanging on the wall opposite the elevator, “They should’ve been at the bridge some time ago, sir. It’s not like Team Eagle to be this late.”
“How good was our information?” asked Snake. One always had to worry that the DEA or CIA or Interpol or whoever, had finally managed to buy off one of his operatives or just plain sucker them into sending along bad intelligence data.
“Pretty damn good,” Rommel assured him. “Of course, she’s only been an intern for a short while. It’s possible her info wasn’t complete or that she misinterpreted something.”
Snake nodded. “Did we manage to get her those remedial lessons in playing ‘battleship’?”
“Yeah. And I guess things are going better.” Rommel rubbed his balding scalp. “Who would have thought that the Big Guy would be more interested in playing with his toy ships than in dallying with her?”
“They’re not toy ships!” barked Snake. Rommel paled and stepped back. Controlling himself with visible effort, Snake jabbed the German in the chest with an extended forefinger, “Not toys! Fine, delicately detailed models! Complete with movable turrets, rotating radar masts, propellers that turn, and a little whistle that plays ‘Row-row-row-your-boat’! Not goddamn toys!”
Rommel nodded silently. Snake was always difficult to get along with, but this sort of outburst was a little unusual. “I . . . ah . . . take it you have an interest in such . . . um . . . models, sir?”
“Damn right! I have one, just like the set Yeltsin gave the Big Guy.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth, scowling blackly. “But my set . . . well, it’s a damn copy!”
“Sorry to hear that, sir,” said Rommel smoothly. “Is that a bad thing from a collector’s view, sir, or is the set less . . . ah . . . technically accurate than the original?”
Snake calmed down a little. He loved his little battleships, copies or not. “Everything’s the same, except . . . except . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Different how, sir?” Rommel really didn’t give a tinker’s damn about the sodding boats, but he needed Snake to be calm.
“Well . . .” Snake kicked his feet. “It’s not a big thing, really. The little music thingy plays ‘Anchors Aweigh’ instead of the ‘Row-row’ tune. I just wish it . . . well . . .” He shook himself and came back to the here-and-now. “What’s our situation?” he inquired brusquely.
Turning away to hide a grin, Rommel took up a pointer and ran the tip down the depiction of the trail coming into the village from the south. “Here’s our little surprise, sir. A standard L-shaped ambush.” He tapped the map, describing the forces deployed. “Scouts down along the trail to give warning. Two machine guns here at the top of the ‘L’. Thirty riflemen along the side, all armed with M-16s or SAWs . . . um . . . that’s Squad Automatic Weapon, sir.” Snake waved away his explanation. Rommel hurried on, “Two more machine guns in the corner. Then the real heavy stuff. Two T-80 tanks dug in along the base of the ‘L’, just here, sir.”
“Well,” said Snake dryly, “That ought to do it. Where are our victims?”
Rommel tossed the pointer back on the table. “That’s the problem, sir. They haven’t shown up. Our scouts can’t find them anywhere.”
“Can’t find them . . .” Snake frowned. “Our intel was pretty specific. Have you sent anyone looking?”
“Yes, sir. Scouts should be reporting in anytime.” Rommel checked his watch. “Let’s see,” he mumbled, “Mickey’s little hand was on . . . ah . . . yes . . . they should be checking in soon.”
“Okay. So what if the . . . what do they call themselves?”
“Yes . . . well, what if they come in some other way? What then?”
“Well . . .” Rommel stalled for time, “Ah . . . we would . . . we would . . . re-deploy. Yes! That’s it! We’d re-deploy to meet the threat, sir!” He mopped the sweat from his brow.
Snake nodded. “I can see the riflemen and machine gunners moving fairly rapidly, but what about the tanks? Do you have alternate firing positions prepared for them?”
Rommel laughed nervously. “Funny you should ask that, sir. We were just discussing that very thing. It’s one of our little problems. Sir.”
“Those tanks were very expensive, Colonel. You’re not going to tell me something really bad about my tanks, are you Colonel?”
“Ah . . . no, sir. I mean . . . evidently . . . um . . . evidently the Russians build some real crap for engines, sir.” Rommel watched Snake out of the corner of an eye. So far he seemed to be taking it better than expected. “What I mean, sir, is that the bloody damn things haven’t run since they were delivered.”
“They don’t run? My beautiful Russian tanks don’t run?” Snake was more shocked than angry.
“No, sir. Not . . . they don’t run. Never have. The blighters must have done something or left something off, or . . . I don’t know. They just don’t run. We pulled them into position with oxen.”
“Oxen!” Snake was so appalled he couldn’t speak. “Oxen!” he squeaked a second time. Wisely, Rommel gave him a few moments to recover before going on.
“Oxen, sir. A damn lot of them, too! We wore out a whole bloody herd just getting the tanks to where they are now. Some of the poor critters perished. We had them for dinner last night.” He smiled. “They was a little tough, but not bad.”
Snake stood with both hands clasped over his face. Finally, he sighed and slumped into a chair. “Okay, Colonel. Lets . . .” He fell silent as a shapely young corporal handed Rommel a message form.
“Ah, yes,” said the Colonel, “now we have it, sir.” He handed the message to Snake. “They’ve gone off.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Home, I suppose, sir. Wherever good little bad-guy fighters go when they aren’t fighting bad guys. Back to Fort Bragg or Fort Bliss or some other tiresome place.”
“Now this really doesn’t make sense!” exclaimed Snake. “The Big Guy must have gotten cold feet and decided to call the whole thing off. Damn him anyway!”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir. But, so what? Now we don’t have to expend any of our expensive ammunition. Much as I would like to blow a few Americans to bloody gobbets, it seems this one has worked out in our favor, sir.”
Snake handed the message form back to the corporal. Her uniform was commendably brief and he watched indulgently as she swayed back across the room. “Ah . . . yes,” he said absently, “I suppose you’re right. Still . . . I was counting on a nice noisy gunfight. We haven’t fired the tank main guns in ever so long. Blood and guts. I was really looking forward to it.” He looked up wistfully. “Would there have been any blown off legs or arms, do you think, Edwin?”
“I’m sure of it, sir. But don’t fret. We can always line up a few oxen and try out the tank guns on those, sir. If that would make you happy, sir?”
“Oh, it’s just not the same, Colonel. Just not the same.” Snake started for the elevator. “Send along that corporal, will you Colonel? I’ll bet she’d like to play battleship.”
Special Ops: Target for Tonight
Carlos lowered his binoculars and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The Norte Americanos have left. Call it in, Miguel.” The radioman nodded and bent to his task.
Orlando rolled up on his side and lifted the hat from his face. “Sorry, Carlos. You don’t get to kill any Yankees today.” He laughed and flopped back in the dust.
“That’s okay,” replied Carlos. “If we killed them, we’d have to bury them. I don’t like digging holes in this heat.”
“Hah!” retorted Orlando, “You don’t like doing anything much, El Presidente, heat or no heat.” He cackled loudly. “Except playing with the chiquitas.” Carlos and Orlando had been working for Senor Snake for nearly ten years. Somewhere along the way Orlando had discovered that Carlos attended school until his fifteenth year – far longer than usual in these districts. At some point he began calling Carlos ‘El Presidente’. Neither man could recall the exact circumstances, but both assumed that strong drink had played a part. Much to Carlos' dismay, the name stuck.
Carlos tucked the binoculars away. “Your brother-in-law will be in for a little surprise when he returns from fishing – or wherever he is.”
Orlando sat up and surveyed the field where the Yankee plane had been for several hours. “Did the Americanos tear it up much? It don’t look bad from here.”
“No,” answered Carlos, “the field is okay. I was speaking of that rat poison he brews.”
“His tequila? Did the Yankees find the still? I hope they didn’t drink too much!” Orlando scrambled to his feet and gazed across the field at the broken-down hut housing the still.
“Look around,” said Carlos. “Are the Americanos running around clucking like chickens? Are some of them dead under the trees? No. Not a single one. This is how we know they did not find the still.” Miguel chuckled and ducked away from Orlando’s half-hearted swing.
“I admit,” said Orlando with a shrug, “that Popo’s tequila is of poor quality. Yet, it is a genuine article. And will induce a drunken state if taken carefully.”
“Along with blindness and raving insanity,” added Carlos.
“That has never been proven,” objected Orlando mildly. “I myself, however, do not drink it.”
“A wise man,” said Carlos. “But, speaking of the poisonous liquor -- what do you think it will do to the engines on the Americano airplane?”
“You have poured some of Popo’s hooch into the Yankee plane?” Orlando was stunned. He must have slept with more purpose than he thought.
“I did. Some 100 or 200 liters, I would guess. Will it cause the craft to crash?”
Orlando pondered for a minute. “As a paint thinner, Popo’s booze is excellent. For the purpose of killing rats it is not so good. They drink it willingly, but not enough to be fatal. Bugs expire on contact, however.” He shrugged. “Those engines are machines. They may like it.”
“I don’t think so,” said Carlos. “Popo told me he lost a knife last month. A few days later he found that selfsame knife lying in the bottom of one of his vats.”
“I hope he didn’t try to pull it out,” said Orlando, wincing.
Carlos shook his head. “Popo still had his hands when I saw him two days ago. No. He emptied the vat, then picked up the knife.”
“Had the blade gone away?” asked Miguel. “My uncle says he uses Popo’s spirits to clean the rust off his tools.”
“No. The metal of the blade was still there. Popo said he shook the knife to dry it and the blade flopped around like your tool, Miguel.”
“Hey!” exclaimed Miguel. “Don’t say that, Carlos! It only happened the one time . . .”
Orlando thumped Miguel to quiet him. “So you think the hooch may . . . make the engines go . . . soft inside. Maybe stop running?”
Carlos shrugged and picked up his gear. “Maybe. Come on. We have a long walk ahead of us. Miguel’s girl is pining away for lack of attention.”
“Damn you, Carlos! I told you it only happened the one time.”
Orlando grinned at Miguel. “El Presidente. This girl. Can you comfort her all by yourself?”
******
Cobra had barely settled into his seat when the crew chief came pelting back from the cockpit area and plastered his face against one of the windows. Giving a hysterical shriek, he ran back to the front.
“What the hell’s wrong with him?” asked Baltar.
“I don’t know,” said Joker. “But if he comes back wearing a parachute . . .”
A long sheet of flame bloomed on the right side of the plane, clearly visible through the tiny windows. The flame wavered for a second, then disappeared. Cobra looked around in dismay. “Uh . . . maybe . . .” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Now a loud clattering noise began on both sides of the aircraft. Pressing his face against the port, Cobra watched as both left side engines banged and popped, emitting a great deal of smoke and flame. The deck thrummed from the repeated explosions. Suddenly, he was aware that the plane was no longer climbing. In face, if his stomach was any guide, it was now dropping like a stone. “Ah, crap!” he moaned, “I wish I’d thought to tell my wife how much I love her. And my girlfriend, too.”
His ruminations were cut short as the C-130 leveled off and slammed into the ground.
******
Snake was feeling pretty good, all things considered. He hadn’t managed to slaughter the squad of American do-gooders, but he had spent an enjoyable hour with the communications corporal. Her name was Estrellita, which he could care less about. More importantly, she had a lot of natural talents - one of which was an affinity for playing battleship. He glanced across the tub where she lolled, considering her next shot. Her generous superstructure floated fetchingly on the surface of the soapy water - a distraction he had struggled to ignore.
The girl could remember her shots and was, without doubt, the best opponent he had faced in a long time. For a fleeting moment he considered if she might be a Yankee plant. Certainly, his enemies knew of his infatuation with playing ‘battleship’. Shaking his head he dismissed the idea. The Americans weren’t that smart.
“Estrellita, my dear . . .” Snake murmured. He intended to suggest they take a break from the tub and play some other game. A loud swooshing sound interrupted him. Estrellita turned, drawn to the noise. Snake started to get up.
With a ground shaking crash, something large and olive drab came plowing through the roof, tore away most of the hut and disappeared across the village, leaving a trail of thatching, broken timbers, and a huge cloud of dust.
A layer of grit lay over everything, with more filtering down. Bits of straw covered the bath water and both of the occupants. Carefully, Snake gathered up his battleships. Estrellita helped, seemingly oblivious to everything else. They placed the models in their little boxes, dusty, but unharmed beside the tub. Snake handed the woman a towel and began pulling on his fatigues.
“My clothes are gone,” she said grinning. “What was that thing anyway?”
“You look fine in that towel,” he replied. “Or in nothing. I don’t know what it was. Take care of the models, please.”
“Of course, Senor.” She wrapped the towel around her hips and began combing the dust out of her hair. “Take care of yourself,” she added. “We can play more games. Later.”
A dull boom echoed across the village and a large ball of flame erupted in the jungle to the north. Snake eyed the luscious maiden and tried to think of a reason not to go. Sighing, he pulled on his shirt and began making his way through the wreckage. Expensive wreckage, he thought crossly. Somebody’s gonna pay for this.
*****
Cobra, amazingly, found himself still alive and apparently in one piece. The C-130 burned noisily a hundred meters or so inside the trees. The Air Force crew stood in a forlorn cluster beside a splintered tree. A large piece of Hercules wing, complete with one engine lay smoldering nearby. With a start, Cobra realized he still had his weapon and pack. “Damn,” he muttered, “I must be a real professional. Didn’t crap my pants either.”
Joker wandered over. He also had his equipment, which deflated Cobra’s spirits a little. “Well, coach,” he asked briskly, “what do we do now?”
“Ah . . . I suppose,” Cobra stalled for time. He frowned, “Was anyone hurt?”
“Geg’s got another lump on his head. I think he’s gonna sleep through this whole mission.”
Cobra scratched his head. “I’d like to sleep through the rest of it myself. This thing’s a complete disaster. What else could go wrong?” Several shots rang out from the direction of the village. Bullets whizzed overhead. Everyone in view promptly flopped into the dirt.
“You had to ask, didn’t you,” complained Joker. “Just couldn’t leave well enough alone!”
“Sorry. My leadership courses didn’t cover that sort of thing. I’ll know better next time.” He glanced around. “Let’s pull back into the trees and set up a perimeter! Get everybody under cover! Have Baltar and Skip provide some covering fire.”
Joker crawled off to get things moving. Cobra ran crouching and zigzagging toward the Air Force crew’s hiding place. He leaped over a fallen log and crashed to the ground, accidentally kicking the crew chief in the face. The man moaned once and passed out. Cobra crawled up next to the log and nodded to the pilot, a young major. “When he wakes up, tell your crew chief I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
The pilot shrugged. “It’ll probably improve his looks anyway. Don’t worry about it.” He looked over the log briefly, then went on, “I hope you heroes don’t expect much from us airplane drivers.” He hefted his .38 revolver. “Not only is this thing useless against critters larger than a gnat, I can’t hit anything with it either.”
Cobra laughed and nodded. “I know what you mean. They gave me a 9mm, but I’d be better off with sack full of rocks. If I didn’t have my rifle, I’d be in real trouble.” He too, glanced toward the village. “It’s pretty quiet down there right now. Have you guys got a radio? Can we get someone in here for a pickup?”
The co-pilot, a captain, held up a device that most closely resembled a cell phone on steroids. “We’ve got help on the way. Two big choppers.”
“Trouble is,” added the pilot, “they won’t be here for over an hour.”
“Damn!” exclaimed Cobra, “That’s a long time! Can you whistle up some air support with that thing?”
“Hell,” answered the co-pilot, “you can call home if you like! I can even raise the Big Guy if you want to lodge a complaint. But there ain’t gonna be no air support. Those pantywaists at State are already apologizing to everyone handy.”
“Why the hell not?” Cobra was shocked. “I think we’re gonna have a whole bunch of nasty drug smuggling types on our necks shortly. We need some help!”
The pilot grinned weakly. “You’re preaching to the converted, pal. Trouble is, that village we just plowed through is listed in the international archives as a . . . let me see if I can recall what that State Department jerk said . . . oh, yeah . . . ‘a pristine example of indigenous native culture’. Not only are we not going to get any help, we will likely spend the rest of our military careers explaining why we destroyed that little village full of noble savages.” He spat in disgust.
“Ah . . . haha . . . I . . . “ Cobra tried to think of something . . . anything. “What the hell are we supposed to do?” He was whining – but just a little.
“We could run away, I suppose,” suggested the major. “Not that I’m qualified to give you any advice. That’s more your department, sergeant. But, if we run, we’ll be able to guide the choppers in for a pickup most anywhere.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Cobra. “You’d be surprised how much tactical crap involves running for your life.” He thought for a moment. “Trouble is, I’ve got at least one man out of action and the crew chief makes two. We can’t move very fast carrying two men.”
“Well, we could leave old Harley behind,” suggested the co-pilot. “He’s too ugly for anyone to want to keep him around, he chews tobacco, and I’ve never understood more than two words he ever uttered. I don’t think he’s much of a security risk.”
The major nodded in agreement. “That’s all true. But, these bastards would probably just kill him. No. We’ll have to take him along.”
Joker tumbled over the log, smacking Harley with his gun butt. “Jeez, I’m sorry,” he said. Then he noticed the crew chief wasn’t moving. “What’s the matter? Is he dead?”
“The smell would lead you to believe so,” said the pilot, “but I think he’s alive. Your boss kicked his face in on arrival and it looks like you just smashed his nose. Harley’s gonna need a complete makeover after this.” The co-pilot snickered.
“There’s not much happening in the village, boss,” said Joker. “Everyone’s back in the trees, just over to the east there. We can move back a little and circle around to meet them. Baltar and Skip are at the edge of the trees for security.”
“Right,” said Cobra. He pointed to the two pilots. “You guys start off with Harley. Z-man and I will cover you.”
“Damn,” said the pilot as the two men moved to pick up the crew chief. “Not only do we have to carry this smelly old hillbilly, but I won’t get to say that.”
Cobra was confused. “Say what?”
“’I’ll cover you,’” answered the pilot. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” Laughing, the pilots lifted Harley and stumbled off into the trees.
“God!” said Cobra. “Now I’ve heard everything.” He motioned for Joker to follow the flight crew. “Go ahead. I’ll be along.”
“No you don’t,” objected Joker. “You’re not hogging all the good lines! You go! I’ll follow.”
“You’re as bad as those Air Force pukes.” Cobra made ready to move out.
