Family Matters

by Robert Ullrich

  “That all changed the day Torano came to visit. He arrived in the third of three black Suburbans. There was a small man who followed him everywhere. That man was you. You were like his fucking shadow.

  “I don’t know exactly what happened. I wasn’t there. The rest of my family was. My mother cooked while my two sisters waited tables and washed dishes.

  “Jorge Castellano was my father’s mechanic. He was a good man, too. He still is, though he isn’t as good a mechanic with one hand.”

  Castro was staring at Ricardo. The story he told was bringing it all back. Not that it would matter to Ricardo, but Castro had disagreed with Torano on the severity of the punishment. It was just a coincidence, though a bad one. One that proved most unfortunate for Ricardo’s family, Torano was in a black mood. The federales had seized 50 kilos of 95% pure cocaine the day before, and they had seized it at Garcia’s truck stop.

  Castro sighed. “I remember, Ricardo. I remember it all. For all it matters now, I thought Torano was wrong. I didn’t believe your father had anything to do with the seizure.”

  Ricardo slipped a Kukri machete from behind his back; tapping the point against Castro’s forehead. “It didn’t stop you, though, Jose. From what I was told by Jorge, you went about it with a smile on your face.”

  Castro didn’t deny it – nor did his eyes break contact with Ricardo’s.

  “Do you what you must do, Ricardo. My death has been a long time coming.”

  He raised the machete and grabbed Castro’s right arm. He did not resist.

  “This is for Jorge,” said Ricardo as he brought the machete down, severing Castro’s right hand at the wrist. Castro moaned in pain but didn’t scream.

  “This is for my sister, Dolores.” With that said, he severed the left hand. This time a sharp cry of pain came out of Castro. Both men noticed how little Castro was bleeding. The ropes had been tied tight. Tight enough to cut of the circulation.

  “This is for my sister, Camilla,” said Ricardo. He swung the machete with both hands, taking Castro’s left leg from the knee down. This time, Castro screamed, and the blood flowed.

  Without hesitation, Ricardo spoke again. “This is for my mother, Josie.” The right leg suffered the fate of the left. Blood was pouring out from both legs now. Castro wouldn’t last long.

  Ricardo took Castro’s chin in his left hand, pressing the bloody machete against his neck. “You took everything from me. Everyone I loved. I want you to know this before you die. Last night, two of my cousins slipped into Chihuahua and killed your wife and all five of your children.”

  The look on Castro’s face didn’t change. It wasn’t hatred or fear.

  “Any last words?” asked Ricardo.

  Castro was fighting to remain conscious. It took him two tries to get the words out. “Yes, Ricardo. My last words are these; I did what I did. I’d do it again.”

  With a cry mixed with rage and sorrow, Ricardo removed the head of the once feared Annihilator with one swing. The blade gouging the wall behind Castro as it sliced through the neck.

  Ricardo stood for a moment looking at the dead man in front of him. He turned to his two cousins. “The Chameleon is coming. The doors have been blown out. I must go with Camacho.”

  “Go Ricardo,” said his cousin everyone called Choco-Loco. “If it is our day to die, so be it. At least I will die happy with the revenge taken on this pig.” He spat on Castro’s head.

  “Thank you, Choco. Thank you, Rey. I hope to see you again someday.”

  The three men hugged. Ricardo looked at his watch. Five minutes to make it to the storage room. Plenty of time if Camacho was still there.

  November 16

  12:15 PM – CST

  Camacho was about to leave when Ricardo came through the hidden door in the back of the storage room. There had been no time to change, he was covered with Castro’s blood.

  “What happened?” asked Camacho. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, Hefe,” said Ricardo grimly. “I can’t say the same for Castro or just about everyone else that was in the lower level when the trucks blew.”

  “Castro was there?”

  “Si, Hefe. I don’t know why either. It doesn’t make sense.” Ricardo kept his voice even, doing better than he expected with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

  “Shit. It’s his own damn fault,” said Camacho. “I told him not to go down there. He should have listened. Was he alive when you found him?”

  Ricardo answered truthfully. “Si, Hehe, but he died while I was holding him. There was no way to stop all the blood. There were so many others, I couldn’t do anything for them, either.”

  Camacho patted Ricardo on the shoulder. “You did the right thing coming here. I need you. There is nothing more to be done for those who remain.

  “You drive. Just follow the tunnel and we will be at the door in 10 minutes. Have you heard from Clark?”

  “No, Hefe, but I didn’t expect to. The Chameleon might be listening in. It’s better he keeps off the radio.”

  Camacho nodded his agreement. “Let’s go. I just hope he’s there.”

  “If not, he will be, Hefe. Richard Clark is a good man. He is also cautious. He didn’t survive all those years in Vietnam by making rash decisions in combat.”

  “True,” said Camacho. “Now drive.”

  Victor started the Prius. It remained silent.

  “Just step on the gas,” said Camacho, “the batteries should take all the way there. It’s quiet, it takes getting used to.”

  Ricardo had to agree. It was eerie driving down the tunnel; the wheels on the gravel the only sounds

  November 16th

  12:19 PM – CST

  Lazarus pulled out his sat-phone to see who was calling. He didn’t recognize the number, so he answered non-committedly.

  “Yeah?”

  The voice sounded nervous, unsure. “Uhm, I sure hope I got the right number. I just don’t know what to say if it isn’t.”

  With Cooper’s twang, Lazarus spoke. “Who ya tryin’ to call?”

  “This is going to sound really bad, but I don’t know his name. All I have is this number that I was given in Matamoras, if that helps.”

  “It does, a bit at that,” said Lazarus. “Yer tryin’ to get ahold of that fella what let you go the other day in the jungle?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then you must be that pilot feller, something Clark ain’t it?”

  “Richard would be my first name, but yeah, it’s Clark.”

  “Good to meet ya, Mr. Clark, so to speak. The name’s Cooper; Cooper Johnson. My daddy was a big fan of Gary Cooper.” Lazarus grinned as he ran through his standard Cooper intro. “I know ya don’t know me, but since I answered the boss’s phone, yer gonna have to trust me on this one. What kin I do fer ya, Mr. Clark?”

  “If you say so, but you gotta understand my life is on the line here. I screw up, and your boss said I’d be dead.”

  “Well, since yer callin’ like ya was supposed to, I don’t reckon there’s gonna be a problem,” said Lazarus. “I take it yer on the way to pick up that Camacho feller.”

  “I am. I’m about fifteen minutes out, coming in from the Southeast. I just don’t want to get shot down.”

  Lazarus laughed. “Naw, yer good to go. Ya know the plan after ya pick him up?”

  “I tell him an Agent Weaver, of the CIA has provided a long-range helicopter to get him out of the area. I have coordinates for the meet-up, are they good?”

  “Stand by a one, there Mr. Clark. Let me confirm.”

  “Gunny – Redneck, you copy?”

  “Five by five, Red.”

  “I got that Clark feller on the horn. He’s fifteen minutes out and then will be heading to the rendezvous site ya’ll put together. Ya’ll still good to go on that?”

  “Roger that, Red. I will head for chopper. Do you want the big-guy to stay or go?”

  “Take him with ya. If you ain’t seen no-one come out t
hat side door by now, it ain’t gonna happen. I’d rather have ya’ll together.”

  “Copy that. We’ll be at the rendezvous location in thirty-five. Gunny out.”

  Lazarus turned his attention back to Richard Clark. “Mr. Clark, yer good to go on the hook-up with that other chopper. Now, as far as I know, Camacho ain’t never seen them two before, what will be on the chopper. Don’t go getting yer knickers in a twist. Them two kin handle themselves jest fine.”

  “Roger that, Red,” said Clark.

  “You caught that huh?” noted Lazarus. “Well, yer gonna be hollerin’ at Gunny on the agreed frequency when ya get close. We good?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re good,” said Clark. “I just hope everything goes as planned.”

  “I hear ya,” said Lazarus. “Now, if’n there’s more than just Camacho, you let Gunny know by sayin’ yer comin’ in heavy. I don’t reckon Camacho is much on pilot lingo. If’n he asks, just tell him it means ya got full fuel tanks.”

  “Copy that, Red,” said Clark. “There will be at least two, I know that for sure. Camacho and one other, a Ricardo Spencer and maybe another man named Castro. I don’t know the first name.”

  “10-4,” said Lazarus. “I don’t reckon there’s gonna be trouble, but if’n there is, jest git yer ass out the way an let Gunny and the big-guy do what they do.”

  “No argument here, Red.” Said Clark. “Clark out.”

  Lazarus relayed the info to Gunny on the possible extra passengers. Gunny said he would have Mumphord off the bird and strategically stationed in the event anything went wrong.

  Lazarus double-tapped his ear piece to get Katsumi on the line.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Katsumi.

  “Hey, Darlin’, Cooper here,” said Lazarus for the benefit of the crew. “Can ya do me a favor quick-like?”

  “Sure, Mr. Johnson. What do you need?” asked Katsumi.

  “Anything ya can rustle up on a Zapato that goes by the name of Ricardo Spencer. I ain’t believin’ that’s his real name. He’s on the chopper with that Camacho fella, and I want to make sure we don’t git snake-bit.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Katsumi. “I’ll get back to you in ten with anything I find, even if it’s nothing.”

  “’Preciate that, Katsumi. I’ll be waitin’ on yer call.”

  November 16th

  12:23 PM – CST

  Lazarus kept the AC-130 on the pylon turn. He wanted Camacho out of the compound. If he suspended the attack it would look suspicious at this point. His sat-phone vibrated in the middle of the firing cycle as the gunship made another pass.

  “Stand by one!” he yelled into the phone, hoping he could be heard.

  General Fischer heard nothing but the roar of the weapons, but it indicated Johnson had answered. The roar of the guns continued for three minutes before going mute.

  “Ya still there?” asked Lazarus. “Whoever the hell ya are anyways.”

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson, I am still here. Where the hell else would I be?” curtly asked the General.

  “Well, hell, General,” said Lazarus, “I wasn’t expecting no goddamn personal calls during an air attack.”

  General Fischer grunted. “I suppose not. Regardless, you have company.”

  “Say agin, General?” asked Lazarus.

  “You have company. Thermal imaging picked up a single unidentified individual approaching on foot from the east. Right now, he is 125 yards south-southeast of your two men on the eastern flank.”

  “I can’t break off the attack, General,” said Lazarus.

  “That’s why I called,” said General Fischer. “Patch me through to Reichart.”

  “Can do, General, hold on a sec’”.

  “Gooo-stow – this is Redneck.” Lazarus drew out the first syllable; as only a real southerner can.

  “Gusto – go,” said Gustaf.

  “Stand by son, I’m fixin’ to patch yer boss’s boss through to ya.”

  “Go ahead, General, I got yer German boy on the horn,” said Lazarus.

  “No shit?” asked Gustaf. “Guten nachmittag, Allgemeines. Was kann ich für Dich tun?”

  “Damn it all, Reichart, you know I don’t speak a lick of German,” said General Fisher.

  “I know,” said Gustaf. “It just makes me happy to hear you say it. Your orders, sir?”

  “You have an unidentified tango approximately 125 yards out at 4:00 to your position. Consider the tango hostile and eliminate.”

  “Understood, Mein Kommandant, Gusto – out.”

  *****

  Tommy Huang was making slow progress over the rocky terrain. He was raised in Hong Kong – mountain climbing was never on his to-do list. He could hear the AC-130 and the sounds of the ongoing attack echoing back and forth from the canyon walls. The sound was deceptive. He had thought to be almost on top of the site 30 minutes prior. He looked up as he topped a small ridge. The gunship was just coming into view from his left, banked at a steep angle that gave him a clear shot at the belly of the aircraft.

  Reichart watched the lanky Asian through the M66 scope on his M4 carbine. The range was less than 75 yards, so the view was clear.

  Huang, encouraged by the view of the gunship, scrambled down a small drop and across an almost flat out-cropping near the edge of the canyon. He swung a large pack off his back and unzipped it. He pulled out what looked like a drum, larger on one side than the other. It took Reichart a minute to recognize it. He hadn’t seen one in two decades.

  The weapon was a Shorts Blowpipe surface to air missile used by the British marines in the 70’s. There was no mistaking it. The front, larger sized drum held the fins and guidance system for the missile. The fins are attached to the missile body after firing with heat activated tapes. Gustaf watched as Huang attached the aiming unit to the launch tube. Huang then put on a protective face shield and hoisted the rocket to his shoulder.

  Gustaf stood and began walking towards Huang. His finger on the trigger of the MP4 as he closed the distance over the almost flat surface. Gustaf stopped less than 25 yards from his target. He heard the engine noise of the AC-130 as it came around the peak across the canyon.

  A very incongruous smile lit up the German’s face. Gustaf knew the Blowpipe was a manually guided missile. The aiming unit was good enough to get the rocket flying in the right direction. It took the joystick on the launch tube to guide the missile into its target. Sure, he would probably catch hell for letting the kid launch it, but he’d been down that road so many times he’d worn a rut in it.

  Huang knew he only had one chance, and he had to make it count. The plane was well within the effective range of the weapon. What he didn’t know was how ineffective a weapon it was. In the Falkland war, the British and Argentinian forces launched almost one hundred Blowpipes. The total kill count for the 95 launched by the British was one downed aircraft. It was a low flying helicopter at less than 100 mph. The Argentinians did no better; downing one Harrier as it was hovering in place.

  Huang held his breath and lined up the cross-hairs on the nose of the 130. He fired as the plane was almost perpendicular to his position, the worst possible angle for a very ineffective missile. Tommy Huang never saw the missile drop dramatically as it lost its guidance. By the time the missile was 100 yards out of the launcher, Tommy was falling 250 feet to the rocks below; dead before he knew it when the .223 hollow point came out his forehead, taking most of the frontal lobe of his brain with it.

  “What the fuck was that?” yelled Sargent Mike Dempsey, one of the crew on the howitzer. The now unguided missile launched by the Blowpipe had detonated against the canyon wall below and behind the AC-130.

  “Looked like a damn missile,” said Corporal Jason Johnson. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t much of a threat from the looks of it.”

  LJ broke in over the coms. “15 seconds to firing point. Fire at will.”

  The two soldiers glanced at their watches. Exactly 15 seconds later the Gatlin in the front bay came to life in unison with
the Bofors gun. Dempsey slid a shell into the breech, Johnson locked and loaded and the 105mm howitzer belched fire and smoke as they began their fifth strafing run on the compound.

  There was no actual proof there’d ever been a building on the site, except for the smoke that billowed through cracks in the mountainside. It made no difference to Lazarus. The guns kept blazing while the 105 kept spitting out projectiles one every ten seconds.

  “Hey, Red,” said Gustaf. “Target eliminated.”

  “Copy that, Goo-stow,” said Lazarus, once again drawing out the name. “I reckon ya couldn’t stop him from firin’ that rocket at us, huh?”

  “It was a Blowpipe, Red,” said Gustaf as though it explained everything. It did.

  “No shit?” said Lazarus. “Ain’t seen one of them worthless hunks of British engineerin’ since the 80’s.”

  “Roger that,” said Gustaf. “There are still hundreds out on the black market. Apparently, the buyer wasn’t aware he was getting royally ripped

  off.” He laughed as he said, “Gooo-stow out!”

  ~27~

  NOVEMBER 16

  1:05 PM – CST

  Lazarus double-tapped his ear com.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Johnson,” said Katsumi. She knew no one could hear her except Lazarus. She was meticulous when it came to his legends.

  “Hey there, darlin,” said Lazarus. “You got eyes on that Clark feller?”

  “Yes, sir. He is on the ground approximately 1200 yards south of your flight path. He is alone at this time.”

  “Sounds good,” said Lazarus. “Keep an eye on him for me, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” said Katsumi.

  The AC-130 had just finished its fifth run. Lazarus keyed the coms. “Gunny – Redneck here.”

  “Go Red,” said Young Bear.

  “Mr. C has arrived as scheduled at the back door. You and Ribs need to git goin’ to the hook-up sight.”

  “Copy that, Gunny out.” Mumphord was already heading his way when he turned to his left. “I heard him,” said Elijah.