Noble Savage Guild, Local 501, invoked paragraph 1351 of its agreement with Snake & Company about fifteen minutes after the crippled C-130 plowed through Snaketown. All workers present when the disaster occurred were to be paid eight hours overtime pay and given the next three days off in order to seek counseling and recover from the trauma. Josiah P. Snake was not a happy camper.
Just now he sat with his back to the remains of a wall which once was part of Quaint Village Hut #23, the most common model used in the construction of Snaketown. Half the structures in the village were now reduced to stacks of kindling and drifting bits of straw. The other half were damaged to one degree or another.
Colonel Rommel came puffing around the corner of the damaged wall and flopped down beside his boss. He took off his snazzy Aussie bush hat ($21.95, Marx Brothers) and fanned himself as he panted.
“Well, boss,” he puffed after a minute or two, “a couple of the boys are sniping at the Yankee bastards. Making ‘em keep their heads down. The . . . uh . . . natives are all gone. I guess you knew that?” Snake snarled and nodded. “Ha-ha . . . um . . . the men who were at the ambush site should be up shortly.”
“Meanwhile, the sonsofbitches who tore up my village are getting away!” roared Snake. The Colonel cringed back and kept quiet. Snake stood up and glanced over the splintered logs. “I see they’ve moved back into the trees. Do we know what they’re doing?”
“Ah . . . yes, sir,” stammered Rommel, “Sort of. I mean, I’ve got scouts out to the east, but their radio seems to be on the fritz. One of ‘em came back in a few minutes ago and told me the Yankees have pulled back and set up a perimeter of sorts. So . . . at least as of fifteen minutes ago, they were staying put.”
“That’s better than nothing, I suppose,” said Snake, calming down a bit. “What’s the matter with the goddamn radios?”
“Could be anything I suppose. But, I suspect the ‘Made in Bulgaria’ tag explains most of the problem. We should have bought radios from the Japanese or Americans. Even their junk stuff works better than that ex-Soviet crap.”
“Wait a minute. You were the one who advised I buy that Soviet equipment! Including the tanks!”
Rommel nodded. “That’s true. It was cheap and, truthfully, I never figured we’d use it.” The Bulgarian rep had paid a substantial bribe to Edwin in closing the deal, but he elected not to mention that. He also didn’t say anything about the week in Monaco with the two models.
Snake slid back down against the wall. Rommel’s admission surprised him. Every now and then the man acted like a real soldier. He hoped Edwin could keep it up until the Yankees were gone. “Well, it’s only money. We can always get more. What will the Americans do now?”
“They’re waiting for pickup, I suppose. Probably by helicopter.” Rommel shook his head and motioned vaguely off to the east. “The safest thing to do is just let them go.”
“After what they’ve done here? Are you out of your mind!”
“No, I’m just being realistic. What happened here was an accident. If they had intended to destroy this place it would have been easier to drop a bomb on it. The lab and the command post aren’t even damaged.” Rommel gazed around at the shredded buildings. “This is just gingerbread. We’ll have it back in place within a month.”
Snake sat silently for several minutes. Rommel made sense. Still, it went against the grain to allow the Yankees to get off that easily. There must be a way . . . .
No fool, Rommel knew his employer wanted a measure of revenge. Edwin needed a couple more years working for Snake in order to steal enough to ensure a comfortable retirement. His idea of ‘comfortable’ included several houses in decent locations staffed with a plethora of companionable females. There had to be a way . . . .
Estrellita approached the north end of the village, careful to keep piles of smashed logs or other solid material between her and the trees where the Yankees were holed up. She had donned a ragged T-shirt (Tommy One-Finger, $13.95), shorts, and an ammo belt laden with a canteen, knife, and six magazines for her M-16 rifle (US Army, stolen). A bandanna bound back her long black hair. Snake looked up and she smiled inwardly at the effect of her appearance. The T-shirt was very ragged and short. Getting it right had required the use of her belt knife. The end result was more enhancing than obscuring, which is exactly as she intended. He scrambled to his feet and reached to assist her over a pile of debris.
“Ah, Estrellita, my dear,” he said, eyes dancing over her costume, “are you hunting Americans?”
Estrellita posed fetchingly with the rifle, “These are for self defense only. A girl never knows when she might have to fend off attackers.”
Rommel eyed the woman with approval. He noticed she didn’t define ‘these’. She was just his type – young and female. However, he was relatively certain that the boss had ideas along the same line, so he put her out of his mind. For the moment. Besides, he was getting the glimmerings of an idea.
“The tanks,” he said. Tugging at Snake’s arm to draw his attention away from the woman, he repeated himself, “The tanks. We can use the tanks.”
Snake frowned, wondering if he was being conned. “Have you come up with another herd of oxen? Two herds? The Yankees wouldn’t hesitate to shoot oxen towing a tank toward them.”
“No. We don’t have to tow them anywhere!” Rommel fairly leaped to his feet. “Indirect fire! We use the main guns like artillery!”
Snake was dubious. “Aren’t the Americans too close for that?”
The excited German peered over the broken off wall. “Maybe. But we can drive them, I think. Send men forward to snipe at them. Make them move back. It will work, by damn!”
“Hell, I think you’re right!” Snake was getting caught up in the excitement. “You go down to the tanks. Make sure they understand what to do. I’ll get some riflemen out to take potshots at the Yankees.” Without further ado, the two men took off.
Estrellita sighed and looked around uncertainly. Going along to shoot at the Americans sounded dangerous and she didn't want to leave the village area. Maybe it would be better to go down and watch the tanks. The crewmen would probably work better if they knew she was watching. Men liked to take off their shirts and work up a sweat when a pretty girl was around. There were all sort of possibilities. Snickering quietly, she started back through the village.
Snake found Carlos and his two fellow scouts taking a smoke break in the shade of a large tree overhanging the river. Rommel splashed across the stream and headed for the tanks, barely visible inside the fringes of the jungle.
“Where are the others,” Snake asked Carlos. “From the ambush?”
“Ah, senor,” said Carlos, saluting, “they elected to remain further south, in order to safeguard the trail from any Americano reinforcements coming up from that way.”
Orlando stood up and flipped his cigarette into the water. “Really, senor, the officer felt certain the Yankees would soon be along. From the south.”
Having lived in the area for some years, Snake accurately deduced that his hired thugs had decamped. Officer and all. He cursed savagely for several minutes. The three men listened in admiration. Senor Snake was a true artist.
Finally, he ran down. “Why didn’t you men run off with the others?” he asked at length.
Carlos grinned broadly. “We came to collect our reward, senor.”
Now Snake was intrigued. “Reward for what?”
Orlando stepped forward. “While spying on the Yankee airplane, senor, we, acting together,” Carlos snorted and Orlando frowned at him, “acting together, as I have said . . . we placed in the fuel tanks some of my cousin Popo’s home made tequila.” The others nodded in agreement.
Carlos eyed Orlando. “I thought Popo was your brother-in-law?”
“And so he is,” answered Orlando. “And my cousin. We are all one big happy family together.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Snake. “You poured some of Popo’s rat poison into the American airplane? What on earth for?”
“Pardon me, Senor Snake,” said Orlando, “but Popo’s hooch is no good for killing rats. They won’t drink enough of it . . .”
“Shut up!” roared Snake. “Just shut up!” He sank down on the riverbank, shaking his head. The men stood stiffly, sweating heavily.
“Okay,” Snake said finally. “You sabotaged the American plane. It flew away from Popo’s field. And then, after a few minutes, it stopped flying.” He turned and pointed at the rising column of smoke to the north. “There it is. Over in the jungle. Burning.”
The three men nodded vigorously, grinning. “Si, senor!” exclaimed Miguel, “We really did it!”
Taking Carlos by the shoulder, Snake led them up the short slope into the village. From there they could see the path of destruction left by the C-130 as it tore its way through.
“Now,” said Snake, “how shall I reward the three brave men who brought this American monster down on my little village? How,” he continued, voice rising, “shall I pay back those morons who caused my very, very expensive village to be demolished? How!”
No one said anything. Finally, Orlando swallowed noisily and croaked, “Ah . . . perhaps I have overstated my part in this affair . . .” His voice trailed off. Miguel removed his floppy hat and began biting the brim. Carlos stood as if rooted.
Snake let the silence stretch. “Yet,” he said at last, “I have a task to be performed.”
Five minutes later Carlos led the others out of the ruined village and into the trees to the north.
Orlando walked along steadily, face pale beneath his tan. “We have had a narrow escape, my friends,” he muttered. Miguel checked his rifle and said nothing.
Carlos watched the trees carefully, choosing a route with halfway decent cover. “We have not escaped yet, Orlando.”
“True, true. But I feel much safer slinging lead at the Yankees than trading funny stories with the Snake.”
“Perhaps,” said Carlos, “when it is all over, and assuming we survive, we might want to discuss the degree to which your part in all this was overstated.”
“Of course,” replied Orlando, regaining some of his good humor, “always remembering that if the Snake knew that you alone were responsible for bringing the plane down, he might have shot you out of hand and let me and Miguel do this little task.”
Carlos was quiet for a few yards. “There are,” he muttered, “always many sides to a story.”
Orlando nodded, grinning. He thumped Miguel in the ribs. “And what is Miguel’s side of the story? Do you have a side, Miguel?”
“I am trying not to,” said Miguel.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Orlando. “I remember everything. And I can make up the other stuff.”
Special Ops: Pantywaist City
Big Guy: The plane crashed? Where?
SecWar: In a village . . . um . . . in the jungle. They were on their way out . . .
Big Guy: What the hell happened?
SecWar: No one knows, sir. Uh . . . some sort of . . . malfunction . . .
Big Guy: Was anybody hurt? Killed?
SecWar: Preliminary reports are sketchy, sir. But . . . the crew keeps calling for air support.
State: No, by God! Sir, I must insist . . . those nazi troopers of yours . . .
Big Guy: State! Keep your shirt on . . . goddamn it! Are we getting our people out?
SecWar: Ah . . . yes, sir. Two rescue helicopters are on the way. Thirty minutes out . . .
State: Sir! I must protest this incursion into the airspace of a friendly country.
Big Guy: Incursion? You mean the original mission or the rescue?
State: The mission . . . ah . . . both, um . . . just a minute, sir. Uh . . . the ambassador insists . . .
Big Guy: What ambassador?
State: Um . . . Slobovia. The Slob ambassador. He’s protesting everything.
Big Guy: Who the hell? . . . never mind. Tell him we’ll take it under advisement.
State: Sir, that might not be good enough. I’m breaking out the abject apology teams.
Big Guy: Ah, man, I hate that. All of them?
State: Yes, sir. I think it’s necessary. There’s so many little tinpot countries, sir.
SecWar: Well tell the bastards to kiss off! Tell them . . . (sounds of a tussle)
Big Guy: Okay – okay. Don’t hurt him. He’s just a little excited.
State: I have to go, sir. Keep that fascist under control!
Big Guy: (laughing) State thinks you’re a fascist. You’re not are you?
SecWar: Let go of me you goddamn animals!
SSA#2: Sorry, sir. I was afraid you were going to hurt State.
SecWar: (snarling) I wasn’t going to hurt the sonofabitch – I was going to kill him!
Big Guy: All right. Take it easy. Let’s get back to the situation.
SecWar: I can’t help it, sir. State will be crying and apologizing to every two bit bastard . . .
Big Guy: Well . . . it keeps State off the streets. Just ignore it. I do.
SecWar: (sighs) I suppose you’re right. Anyway, the troops will be out shortly.
Big Guy: Good. Let me know how it turns out. I’ll be with my new intern.
SecWar: Ah . . . playing battleship, sir?
Big Guy: Nah. One of the ships developed a leak. It’s out for repairs. We’ll be in the Library.
SecWar: In the Library? Is that wise, sir? I mean . . . in the Library?
Big Guy: Why not? The First Lady never goes there. It has a nice rug, too.
SecWar: Yes . . . why not, indeed. I’ll be on my way, sir. (sound of door)
Big Guy: What have we got for snacks around here? Besides the intern, I mean.
SSA#2: Um . . . lots of stuff, sir. You wanna hamburger? Hot dog?
Big Guy: A hot dog. Yeah, and a beer. Any way you guys could bump off State?
SSA#2: Pardon me, sir?
Big Guy: Never mind. (sighs) Probably wouldn’t solve anything anyway. Where’s the beer?
SSA#2: Coming right up, sir. (sound of beer opening)
Big Guy: I’ll bet those poor bastards out in the jungle would like a beer about now.
Special Ops: Fading Back
“I wish I had a beer,” said Baltar. “And one of them dollies from the ‘Garage Sale’ to go with it.”
“You astonish me,” said Skip. “I can’t imagine much beyond the beer.”
The two men lay behind a fallen tree keeping an eye on the situation down toward the village. Even the occasional sniping had stopped a few minutes ago. Both of them were mildly suspicious about that, but hadn’t seen anything specific enough to make them paranoid.
Cobra slipped in beside Baltar. “I’ve started the others off along the stream. We’re going to move further away. No sense bringing the choppers in so close to the village.”
“Good thinking, boss,” said Baltar. “I don’t like it being so quiet.”
“Of course it’s good thinking,” said Cobra, snickering. “That’s why they made me a sergeant.”
Skip frowned. “I thought they made you a sergeant because you’d been in the Army since the Year One.” He ducked Cobra’s swing. “The rest of us are mere children.”
“Well, children, give me five minutes then start fading back on our path. I’d like to put a couple of kilometers between us and that damn village.” He checked the time. “The pickup team will be here in about thirty minutes.”
A few minutes later Baltar spotted movement. Tapping Skip on the arm, he pointed toward the village and whispered, “Look. Somebody’s coming this way.”
Within a minute, they could clearly see three armed men picking their way through the trees. “Well,” said Skip, “they don’t seem to be in any hurry.”
“No,” agreed Baltar, “I guess they don’t really want to bump into us, hey?”
“It’s almost time to move, anyway. Let’s fall back a ways and see what they do.”
******
Five minutes later, Carlos and company took cover on the opposite side of the same log and surveyed the terrain ahead.
“I don’t like it,” said Carlos quietly. “I feel like we’re walking onto an ambush.”
Orlando shook his head and grinned. “We’ve been moving slowly enough for a tortoise to get away. The Yankees have gone.” He peered at the ground nearby. “They were here though. Look at the mess.”
Carlos stepped over the log and began picking up scraps. “Candy wrappers. Gum wrappers. A forty watt light bulb.” He shook the bulb near his ear. “Burned out. And here’s a combination wrench. Ah, hell, it’s 12mm.” He tossed the wrench aside. “Goddamn metric crap!”
“Here’s a book,” said Miguel, holding up a tattered copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’. “I’d keep it if I could read English.” He opened the book.
Orlando snorted. “You can’t read in Spanish, either. What . . .” Miguel’s whoop of laughter interrupted him.
“Look!” exclaimed Miguel. “Look what’s inside the book!” He held up the latest issue of ‘EAW Babes’. The other two men crowded around, peering at his find.
******
“Geg’s gonna be pissed when he finds out his book has been left behind,” said Baltar. They were watching the three men from about thirty meters distance.
Skip nodded. “Too late for that now. Let’s give these guys something to think about. One of them has a radio. I’ll put a hole in that. You blow away some tree branches or something.”
“Why don’t we just blow them away? You getting cold feet?”
“Nah. They look to be local banditos or something. Probably pretty harmless.”
“You’ll note that these ‘harmless’ banditos are carrying guns.”
“If they shoot back, then take them out. Satisfied?”
“I just don’t like these limited rules of engagement things,” grumped Baltar.
“Well, for crying out loud! Run on down to the main group and bring up a tactical nuke, why don’t you?”
Baltar eyed Skip for a moment. “Nah. It’d take too long - and I don’t think Cobra would let me use one, anyway.”
Skip nodded. “He’s been getting pretty careful about political stuff. Comes from being a sergeant, I guess. You ready to rock and roll? Or shall we go over and talk them to death?”
“Hell, I’m ready. You’re the one raving about nuclear weapons.” Baltar chuckled and picked out a likely tree branch to blow away. “Fire when ready, Gridley.”
one of the banditos was seated sideways on the log, flipping pages in the book. Skip aimed at the radio strapped to the man’s back and squeezed the trigger. Immediately, Baltar opened up with the SAW. Skip switched to shooting chunks off the log behind which the three men had taken cover. He emptied one magazine and reached for another. Joker thumped down beside him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Hot damn! You got a real firefight going!” He shouted. Skip started to tell him what they were doing, but Baltar’s incessant shooting made explanation difficult. Then, to make matters worse, a burst of automatic weapons fire came back from the banditos. Joker rolled off to one side and fired. Skip concentrated on reloading his weapon.
Baltar stopped shooting and hollered over from the large tree he was using for cover. “They’re shooting way high! I think the shooter is just spraying the trees!”
Skip yelled back. “That’s okay with me! Let’s go!” He started crawling back through the underbrush. Baltar fired another burst downrange and followed. Joker, being out of the loop, as it were, picked that moment to stand up and fire his LAW. Skip and Baltar flattened out, cringing away from the back blast. A thunderous explosion rippled through the forest. Joker tossed the LAW container away and ran past his two companions, grinning like an idiot.
“Come on,” he yelled. “I think that’ll hold ‘em!” Suiting words to action, he sprinted off.
******
Carlos waited a full ten minutes before moving so much as his little finger. Then he carefully crawled out from under the pile of branches and looked around. At no time did he raise his head more than six inches off the ground. “Orlando?” he whispered.
“Over here, amigo. Are you hurt?”
“No. Just a bump or two, I think. Most of a damn tree fell on me.”
“My arm’s broke,” said Orlando. “Whatever the Yankees did there at the last caused that whole log to fly up in the air. A large chunk of it fell on my arm. Where’s Miguel?”
“Here,” came a weak voice. Miguel sniffled a couple of times.
“You hurt, Miguel?” Carlos started crawling toward the sound of Miguel’s whimpering.
“Si,” answered Miguel. “I am wounded directly in the heart.”
Carlos and Orlando hurried over and began pulling branches and dirt clods off their friend. Soon they had him uncovered. He was curled up in a ball, hands clutched to his chest.
“Come on,” urged Carlos. “Let me see.” Miguel shook his head. Carlos couldn’t see any blood. He reached over and gently pried Miguel’s hands apart. Several ragged pieces of paper fell out. Frowning, Carlos bent closer. Miguel’s shirt was unmarked with any blood.
“Miguel, goddamn it! You’re not hurt!”
Orlando picked up one of the pieces of paper, then another. “No, Carlos,” he said sadly. “He is hurt. Look.” He handed a scorched paper to Carlos. “Gringo bastards!”
After scrambling around the brand new clearing, searching frantically for any surviving bits of ‘EAW Babes’, the three men finally gave it up.
“The one damn thing we found that was worth anything,” said Carlos disgustedly. He looked in the direction the Americanos had disappeared. “Miguel, call the Snake and tell him the Yankees have moved north.” He reached over and shook Miguel out of his stupor. “Call the Snake!” Wordlessly, the man stumbled over to his discarded radio.
Carlos wondered if they should follow the Americanos further north. He pulled out his map. Miguel gave a sudden cry. “Carlos! The radio!” By way of explanation he held it up by one strap. Carlos cursed. The radio had one large hole completely through it along with several other neat punctures. Obviously, it was junk.
Orlando tapped Carlos on the shoulder. “I think you should notice the fire.”
“Fire? What fire?” Carlos stood up. What he had taken for gun smoke earlier had turned into a cheery blaze, even now creeping up the trunks of two trees. “What . . . the gringos must have done that!” Shouldering his weapon, Carlos motioned to the others. “Back to the village. We’ll have to tell Snake what’s going on.”
******
“Goddamn it, Joker!” Cobra was beside himself. “Now you’ve got a damn forest fire going!”
The whole party stood in a clearing about three kilometers north of the village. A fine plume of white smoke billowed up between their position and the village.
“Hell, boss,” said Joker, “I . . .” He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“What the hell were you thinking of?” asked Skip. “We were just giving them a little scare. I think you probably killed them all.”
“Well pardon me for living!” snarled Joker, “I find you guys up to your butts in bad guys and try to help out . . . and look at the thanks I get!”
Baltar was sympathetic. “They were banditos, Cobra. It’s not like he smoked an orphanage.”
“All right. All right.” Cobra looked around. “Keep in mind that we’re just trying to get away. We don’t need to kill everything in sight. Okay?” He glanced around. Everyone nodded. Sighing, he headed over to the Air Force crew.
Joker nudged Baltar. “I’ve carried that damn LAW for six months,” he said, eyes twinkling, “But I’m not carrying it back from this place. Besides,” he looked around and lowered his voice, “it was a real kick in the butt to fire that thing!”
Baltar chuckled, then put on a grave face, “I just hope you didn’t hurt anyone.” The two men burst out laughing. It was some minutes before they recovered.
