Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Aren’t we going to wait for dark?” the General asked.

“Dark? And potentially miss the opportunity to spot one of those nefarious bastards? No, we set up shop now.”

“I was under the impression the enemy was nocturnal.”

“Mostly. However, they know that I know that, so they’ll think I won’t think that they would know their best opportunity for migration would be when I wouldn’t think it was the same time they were thinking it would be. I think.”

“Naturally.”

Inside the Padre’s compound, Cesar followed Carnicero and the Padre toward a large red barn. Inside, the Padre led the two men to a large delivery truck parked in the cavernous room. Opening the back of the truck, the Padre motioned for Cesar to climb in.

“What do you think, Colonel?”

Cesar examined the crates of military-grade weapons and explosives. “U.S. military ordnance?”

“Precisely. Your men will have the best of everything.”

“These are my favorites,” Carnicero said, tapping on one of the crates before lifting the lid. Inside was a portable ground-to-air missile launcher.

“Impressive,” said Cesar. “Do you have more?”

“Of course,” the Padre replied. “I have many similar caches, although one lies at the bottom of a harbor. Barquero is paying the price for it.”

“Padre,” a shirtless man called out as he entered the barn.

“What is it?”

“Reports of some men on the property. About a mile to the west.”

“Are they police?”

“I don’t think so, Padre.”

“Army?”

“Impossible,” said Cesar. “I would know if there was an operation near this location. Probably just some people who stumbled into the area.”

“They picked the wrong place to stumble into. Carnicero, take some men and go after them.”

“Yes, Padre,” Carnicero said as he pulled a pistol from his waistband. “Kill them?”

“Not unless you have to. I want to know who they are. Bring them to me. I want to know who would trespass so close to my property. The locals know better.”

“Yes, Padre.”

“Cesar, come with me. It’s time for lunch.”

Private Foxtrot navigated his metal detector along the bank of the shallow stream as the rest of men poked their entrenching tools into the muddy flats along the edges of the water.

“This is useless,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. “I don’t even have a clue what we are looking for.”

“If the General says there is gold out here, then there must be,” said Private Foxtrot.

“I’ve known the General a long time, and he don’t exactly always get the facts just right.”

“Wait, I’ve got something!”

“What?”

“It’s big!”

“How big?”

“The size of a Cadillac.”

“Great, an old car.”

“No, it’s something else. Something else. Holy mama!”

“Watch it, here comes the boss.”

“Attention, battalion!” the General announced as he and Avery approached the men. “Gather up!” The men of STRAC-BOM came together in a circle around the General. “Now look here,” the General said as he began drawing in the mud with the business end of his riding crop. “Over that rise, Private Zulu and one of our civilians, the skinny one, are positioned in a prime location for reconnaissance, according to our fat civilian. No offense.” General X-Ray looked at Avery. Avery bit his lip. He was close to his goal, and now was the time for discretion, even though it didn’t sit with him very well. “We’ll take position here at the top of the ridge.” The General pointed with his riding crop. “When the enemy reveals its location, on my command, Fire Teams Alpha and Bravo will execute a modified reverse echelon and advance on the target while Fire Team Leader Alpha, the civilian, and myself will establish a staggered skirmisher line in the rear.”

“A reverse what?” Private Tango whispered to his Team Leader.

“I don’t know,” replied Fire Team Leader Bravo. “Just run a shallow crossing route over the middle, and I’ll hit you between the linebackers.”

“Roger that.”

“Any questions?” the General asked. None of the men said a word. “Okay, then, obey my commands and protect yourself at all times.” Suddenly, the sound of automatic gunfire exploded from the other side of the rise. Through the din, the sounds of Ziggy’s and Private Zulu’s screams rang out. “Battle stations!” the General shouted. “Fire Team Leader Alpha, where are the weapons?”

“In the bus.”

“Why are they in the bus?”

“That’s where you said to store them.”

“Idiot! Get the weapons. The rest of you men, follow me.” The General turned and waddled his way up to the top of the rise with his troops in tow. Avery was the first one to the top. A group of six Mexican men were loading Ziggy and Private Zulu into the back of a pickup truck. The men were heavily armed. One of the men, one with long black hair, turned and looked back up toward the top of the rise.

“Retreat,” the General whispered as he ducked down and started back to the bottom, his troops right behind him. Avery didn’t move. He just watched the men below. Once Ziggy and Private Zulu were tossed into the bed of the pickup, the man with the long hair turned and climbed into the vehicle. It sped off across the desert floor.

“What the hell?” Fire Team Leader Alpha, halfway up the slope, his arms full of old deer rifles and shotguns in various states of disrepair, asked as the General stumbled past him toward the bus.

“Retreat!” the General cried out again.

“Retreating!” the men called out while running to catch up with the General.

“Flipping pig shit,” Fire Team Leader Alpha swore as he turned around with his load and followed the group. “Make up your damn mind.”

Meanwhile, at the top of the rise, Avery watched the truck pulling away into the distance, heading toward the farm. Over the distance, he could still hear Ziggy screaming out.

“Nannnnncccccy!”

Back at the Coyote’s Lair, the dejected men stared into half-finished bottles of beer.

“I can’t believe they got Zulu,” Private Foxtrot said.

“And the civilian, too,” added Private Tango. “This ain’t going to look good in our mission debrief.”

“My friends, I told you, that area is dangerous, no?” El Coyote passed out another round of beers. “Many people go missing there and are never seen again.”

“What are we going to do, General?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked. “We can’t just leave them behind, can we?”

“I’m strategizing on it,” the General replied as he rubbed his head.

“Mr. Coyote, do you have a telephone I may use?” asked Avery.

“Sure, my friend. It is behind the bar. Feel free.”

“What’s going on?” asked the General. Avery pulled a small piece of paper from his fanny pack.

“I’ve got an idea. Wait here.” Avery went to the bar, found the phone, and dialed a number. After it rang a few times, someone picked up the other end.

“Yes.”

“I’m trying to reach Enrique Montalban.”

“How did you get this number?”

“Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. He’s my legal advisor, or at least one part of the numerous legal experts that comprise my crisis team. He suggested I get in touch with a Mr. Montalban, if certain unfortunate circumstances arise. Can you please put me in touch with him? Immediately.”

“You are speaking to Enrique Montalban. Are you calling to settle Mr. Mountain’s significant gambling debt with me? I can assure you the accumulated interest is quite significant.”