Family Matters

by Robert Ullrich

  Gustaf jumped up into the truck and began moving boxes to the side. “Now, THIS is what makes Gusto happy,” he said as he ran his hands over four crates, warnings and C-4 stamped on the lids. There was 50 pounds of explosive in each crate. Gustaf reached behind the crates and found a box of 50 detonators, two 1000-foot rolls of det-cord, and 6 cellphones; all fully charged with the number written on the phone. “I could almost weep with joy,” the German said to no one in particular. “This is going to be much more fun than I thought.” He looked back at the faces of the rest of the team and stuck out his tongue. They ignored him. Eno couldn’t. He burst out laughing.

  Lazarus spotted Wilson and Mumphord heading towards the back of the hangar. It was lined with tool boxes, storage cabinets and equipment. What caught Wilson’s eye was a neatly stacked pile of boxes on one of the long work benches. They were similar in size and she could see Harris labels on some and 3M on others. Lazarus grinned; the coms expert had spotted her equipment. The 3M boxes each had an Ultra-Light-Weight Ballistic and Bump helmet. One of the dozen boxes was smaller and longer. Mumphord cut it open with the Gerber he always had on his belt. He pulled it out of the box and turned it sideways, analyzing the strange shape of the helmet.

  Wilson elbowed him in the side. “It’s a canine helmet. Don’t you fly-boys have dogs?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Lafayette elbowed Reichart and nodded at the “odd couple’. Soon all eyes were on the duo.

  “Hell yes, Airmen have canine units,” snapped Mumphord; known for his dislike of the term ‘fly-boy’. He turned his 6’7”, 270-pound frame to face Wilson. “We don’t dress them up like grunts. They’re too fast to get shot.”

  Wilson simply kneed Mumphord in the balls. No warning, no discussion, no visual confirmation it was coming. Elijah stepped back but didn’t go down. His face was beet-red, and his lips pressed so tight they looked like two white lines drawn below his nose.

  “You would think he’d know better,” said Lafayette with a sigh.

  “Ja, Herr Lafayette, one would. Then again, Herr Mumphord isn’t your typical männlichen, which goes without saying,” replied Reichart.

  Wilson turned back to the com gear and started sorting it out. There were more than just communications. She quickly found the T&P modular body armor. It hadn’t even been rolled out to active duty soldiers. It was a scalable protection system weighing in at 5 pounds less than the current standard issue. These were the top of the line Tier 4 units; tactical carrier, shoulder pads, soft armor ballistic inserts, SAPIs, ESBIs, ballistic combat shirt, the new pelvic blast protector and a unique load distribution system. The sizes were all tailored to the team, labeled by name; one odd shaped configuration was labeled ‘Langston’. Even the damn dog was getting body armor. Wilson gave Lazarus a ‘come here’ head jog.

  “I have a question, sir,” she stated.

  “Speak freely, Marine.”

  “How in the hell did you get your hands on next-generation body armor the army hasn’t even procured?” Her question was direct, delivered with an even tone. Lazarus could read it on her face, though. She was impressed and trying not to show it, so he told her the truth.

  “I didn’t,” he stated flatly.

  “Then you’ll have to excuse me, but how the fuck did this get here if you didn’t?” asked the openly surprised Wilson.

  “They are gifts,” said Lazarus who held up his hands to everyone. “Before you ask; I don’t know who sent them. I was told by my associate that they were gifts in appreciation for something I did several years ago.”

  Johnson broke the ensuing silence as they tried to process the significance of the statement. “I don’t care if Vladimir Fucking Putin paid for all this,” he swept his arms in a circle to emphasize his point. “If it helps get the boss back, I couldn’t care less who paid for it.”

  Lafayette laughed, breaking the tension. “Vladimir Putin? As you Americans say, ‘You must be shitting me’, Johnson. This man,” he nodded at Lazarus, “may be a gun for hire – no offense intended Monsieur Caméléon – but he is not the sort who would work for the Russian.”

  “How the hell do you figure that?” asked Johnson.

  “It is simple, my American compatriote, Mr. Black trusts him, General Fischer trusts him, and I trust him. No ‘pistolet embauché’ or ‘hired gun’ as you say, of his caliber would work for a man such as Putin.”

  Johnson nodded and went back to sorting the firearms, loading, checking and double checking the actions and cleaning each weapon as he went. Even new weapons were more dependable after a good cleaning. Johnson was removing the cosmoline in the process. Cosmoline is the standard rust inhibitor for military weapons. If not cleaned off, in time it becomes more viscous; worst case scenario the preservative can even solidify to the point of causing jams and limiting mechanics.

  Wilson, with the help of the now firmly chastised Mumphord, sorted through the rest of the boxes on the bench. Her eyes flicked back and forth to Lazarus every time she opened a new box to find another state-of-the-art piece of equipment. Peltor Contac 3 headsets teamed to Harris Falcon III wideband handhelds. The Falcon III was NSA, TS, UHF and Sat-Com compatible. She was certain she could get through to the President with those babies if she had enough time. The 6 Motorola Satellite phones completed the set.

  LJ waved to get Lazarus’ attention. “I’ve got another surprise for you,” said LJ.

  “Where?” asked Lazarus.

  “It’s on the east side of the hangar,” replied LJ. He looked at Young Bear and added, “you’ll wanna see this, too Gunny.” The rest of the team, except for Gustaf and Eno fell in behind, curiosity getting the better of them.

  Gunny let out a long whistle when they rounded the corner. Sitting in the shadow of the hangar was a Russian built Mil MI-35, the exported version of the Mil MI-24, one of the most versatile attack helicopters ever built. It is also one of the few that provide any sort of troop transport with room for 8 passengers and the crew of 2. It was outfitted and ready for combat with a flexible Gatling gun, front mounted with over 1400 rounds of ammo. There was a pair of 9K114 anti-tank rockets on the wingtips and 4 UB-32 rocket launchers on the fixed underwing mounts. A total of 128 57mm rockets were at the pilot’s disposal for close cover ground support.

  “Can you fly this thing?” asked Mumphord.

  “It’s got engines and a rotor doesn’t it?” Young Bear responded.

  “Yeah, it does; stupid question, Gunny, my bad,” said Mumphord as he put his arm around the pilot. “I forget sometimes you can fly without a plane, ya know.”

  Craig gave the big man a look; sending a bit of a mixed message. Mumphord wasn’t intimidated. “Hell, Gunny, you know I like some peyote myself from time to time; when I can’t find mescaline that is,”

  Lazarus spoke up. “We can all get as high as we want to later. Right now, I need to know you are confident in flying this craft, Gunny.”

  “Copy that, sir,” was his answer.

  “That’s all I need to know.” He turned to the surrounding group. “We are less than 30 minutes by air from where Derek will be in about 2 hours. Gear up and be ready to go in one hour. Grab something to eat and drink; Eno will have a meal already waiting for you back at the hangar. There are cots for a quick cat-nap it you want.

  “I want everyone crystal clear on the mission,” Lazarus looked around. “Shooter, you bring Gusto up to speed when I’m done.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” said Lafayette.

  “Gunny will be in command of this operation, period. We all, including me, will follow his orders to the T.” He paused and scanned the faces in front of him. He saw approval in the returned looks. His stock had just doubled with the team. They knew what the Chameleon was capable of, and that he was world-class in his field. Turning over command to Gunny proved his ego wouldn’t get in the way.

  “We are going to bring Derek back. In the process, we’re going to kill all but two of the captors.” He got a couple of confused looks. “It’s a strat
egic element in part two of my mission plan. Gunny will confirm if need be.” The looks disappeared. “There are two specific men we want alive. The pilot is one, he’ll be easy to identify. Ben de la Sedro is the name of the other man I want alive. You’ll be able to identify him by the American flag styled bandana he will have on his person. My expectation is it will be on his head. That’s where I told him to wear it.”

  “Are you telling us that one of your men was involved in the kidnapping?” asked Wilson. She was on the balls of her feet and ready to pounce. It was Gunny who answered. “Stand down Marine.”

  “Aye-aye Gunny.”

  Craig continued. “Yes, one of the Chameleon’s men is in the group that took Derek. He is the reason Derek will still be alive. Ben is one of Camacho’s most trusted associates. He is also a man who owes his life to the Chameleon. The story is irrelevant. The facts aren’t. We are damn lucky Ben was on the team that snatched Derek from what Camo-man has told me.” Craig stopped and turned towards Lazarus.

  “That sorta just popped out,” said Craig. “I picked it up from Derek. I don’t mean any disrespect, but saying Chameleon just wears my ass out…sir.”

  Lazarus didn’t move a muscle. He stared into Craig’s eyes with the world’s best poker face. It didn’t take long for Gunny to start feeling a little insecure. Then he spoke. “I like that nickname, Gunny.” That was it. He turned back to the team.

  “Any questions?” asked Lazarus with ice in his voice.

  “SIR, NO SIR!” they responded with one voice.

  “ARE WE CLEAR?” The sheer intensity in his voice sent shivers down their spines.

  “CRYSTAL, SIR!”

  “Then let’s get to work. Derek isn’t going to save himself,” said Lazarus as he walked through their middle. “Gunny? If you need anything, Eno is standing by. He’s one hell of an airplane technician. If you need any additional resources, whatever it might be, Eno will get it for you.”

  “Copy that,” said Craig as he climbed into the pilot’s seat. Eno took up position 10 feet from the door, a Heckler and Koch .308 slung over his shoulder.

  “Well hell,” he mumbled to himself as he started going over the controls; all re-labeled in English. “Talk about taking the fun out of things.” Young Bear pulled a note-pad from his shirt pocket and began a checklist for the Russian helicopter. He wrote in his Native language, in the tradition of the ‘code-talkers’ of World War II. The notes would be no help to anyone who found the chopper. Unless you were already an experienced MI-35 pilot, the notes would be of no value getting it airborne or arming the weapon systems. He completely eradicated the Cyrillic indicators. The ability to read Russian became useless. Young Bear labeled the switches and gauges with Meskwaki equivalent signs and terms; indicating their purposes. Thirty minutes later he headed back to the plantation to join the rest of the team.

  Craig laid out maps on a table Lazarus had set up; the team seated and waiting. He went over the extraction plan, timelines and assignments in less than 10 minutes. Lazarus was impressed. What he witnessed confirmed he’d made the right call. He particularly liked his assignment – teamed up with ‘Delta’ Johnson.

  Next, Lazarus shared the updated tracking info he had obtained from Katsumi. The chopper carrying Derek, or at least his GPS was due at approximately 23:45 hours. No one entertained the thought Derek wouldn’t be alive.

  “Sync time on my mark at 22:33 hours” he waited a few seconds before counting down, “three – two – one – mark.” He glanced up and every head nodded. “All right then. Let’s saddle up, we are wheels up at 2300 hours.

  “OOH-RAH GUNNY!” was the response.

  Twenty minutes later they were geared up, faces camouflaged, weapons locked and loaded; ready to go. Lazarus and Johnson were at the far end of the hangar in a private conversation concerning their assignment.

  Young Bear watched the team prepare. They moved with a fluidity that only meticulous training could develop in a team as diverse as Derek’s. Craig could only view them as Derek’s, not his. He was a Gunnery Sergeant, he was trained for combat, he was a Marine. He had no ego that needed stroking.

  The minute hand seemed to drag around the face of the clock on the wall. It seemed hours passed before the hand clicked over to 2255. Craig checked the Beretta and holstered it before grabbing an AR90 and slinging it over his left shoulder. “Mount up!” he called back over his shoulder as he walked out the door. Four minutes later the MI-35 was brushing the treetops as it headed west into Mexico.

  ~10~

  November

  12:11 AM – cst

  Katsumi’s intel was accurate. Shortly after midnight, Richard Clark brought the Huey down in a man-made clearing about 50 yards west of the cabin. Clark cycled the engine down as Antonio and Jesus drug Derek out.

  There were two black Yukons parked in front of the cabin. Marcos and Carlos Martinez were sitting in canvas chairs on the front porch of the cabin. Rene Gutierrez was sitting in a similar chair next to a blazing fire. They all rose to their feet as Derek was pushed towards the area between the fire and the cabin.

  Marcos greeted Derek with the butt of an AR-15 to the stomach, dropping him to his knees. He raised the weapon for a second blow, and everyone heard Ben charging his weapon in the jungle air.

  “You will be dead before that rifle touches the gringo, Marcos,” said Ben evenly, the barrel of his AR clearly aimed at Marcos’ head. “I have my orders, so do you.”

  Marcos stood there for what seemed like an eternity to Derek. Marcos was deciding if he could get his rifle around fast enough to shoot Ben before Ben could set off a round. It was Jesus, Marcos’ younger brother who stopped him.

  “Marcos, my brother,” said Jesus as he stepped in front of Ben. “Now is not the time.” He motioned towards the two men on the porch. “We are not the only ones who lost family that day. We owe them the chance to kill this gringo as well.”

  Marcos slowly took a step away from Derek, lowering his weapon. “Yes, Jesus, they deserve a chance, even if they will never get it.” He glared at the men around him. “I will find him. Then, I will kill him.”

  Ben spoke with a hard edge to his words. “No Marcos, you will not kill him. El Hefe wants him alive.” There was no room for negotiation in his voice.

  “So, you keep telling me,” replied Marcos. He spit on the ground in front of Derek. “Accidents happen in the jungle de la Sedro, all the time.” With that he walked back over to the cabin and lowered himself back into the canvas chair.

  More than one of the Zapatos flinched when Derek replied in Spanish; his voice calm. A voice that came from a man who had faced death before and lived. “Si Marcos, los accidentes pueden pasarle a cualquiera en la noche de la jungla.” (Accidents can happen to anyone in the night jungle`).

  *****

  Young Bear watched the entire encounter through his scope from 150 yards to the north of the cabin, listening via the transmitter Wilson had placed on the porch roof. It was invisible under the palm thatch. He had little doubt any of the deployed team members missed the exchange. He wasn’t worried about one them reacting, they had their orders as well. They also knew from Lazarus, Derek would be released into the jungle to be hunted. The conversation between Camacho’s men seemed to verify it.

  *****

  Ben nodded towards Antonio who tossed a box in front of the still-kneeling agent. Wordlessly he stepped up and cut the zip cuffs off and tossed them in the fire, dropping a 3” folding knife next to the box. “Open it, gringo,” he said as he toed the box closer.

  Derek glanced around, carefully avoiding looking into the fire. It would ruin his night vision for at least a few minutes. It was already too bright as far as he was concerned. Then again, Camacho’s men had nothing to be concerned about, not that they knew of.

  There was a note in the box along with a utility belt that held two bottles of water and a sheath for the knife.

  “Hello, Derek, or should I say, Mr. Black, After all, that is the name M
r. Weaver gave me.” Derek didn’t physically react to the information, but it hit him hard. He knew Weaver didn’t like him. He just never imagined the senior agent would sell him out. He returned to the letter and his thoughts were confirmed. “Yes, Mr. Black, Agent Weaver provided us with the necessary information to track you down. I would have to agree with you on one matter, Senora Alvarez does make the best apple pies in all El Paso, let alone breakfast tacos. They are to die for, literally it would seem in your case. You really should vary your routine, or at least not eat alone. It makes for an easy target.

  “You will be released into the jungle now. You will be given a one-hour head-start. You may think you have a chance, but you won’t escape. I’m certain you will surely give it your best. I also haven’t informed my men you were a Navy Seal. There are two or three of them I won’t miss if they fall prey to your skills.

  “You have only one distinct advantage. My men have been ordered to bring you to me alive.

  “Alive is such a relative term, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Black? For example, a man can live without his hands and feet, even without entire limbs. Even the loss of both eyes and your tongue wouldn’t necessarily be fatal. You should keep that in mind. Yes, my men have been ordered to bring you back alive – just a little of what you Americans call ‘food for thought’.

  “Mr. Weaver and I look forward to seeing you soon.

  “Andres.”

  Derek carefully folded the note and tucked it into a waterproof pouch on the utility belt. He retrieved the knife, opening and closing it to check the condition. It was old. Derek was surprised it even cut the zip cuffs. He glanced at Antonio and saw the K-Bar in his left hand. It hadn’t cut anything. He stood up and turned towards Ben. Derek knew this was the man in charge. He also knew his odds of getting out alive were about 50-50. Getting out unharmed – not so good. He was outnumbered 6-1 with no weapons. Derek ran the numbers though his head; certain that a minimum of three Zapatos wouldn’t be returning home. With some random luck, and a recovered weapon or two, he could see five dead bodies. Realistically, if one or two were very good, he wouldn’t make it out unscathed – might not even alive. All in all, he still liked the odds.