Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

Some five hundred miles west of Austin, the entire brigade of militia had gathered in the physical training and hand-to-hand combat gymnasium of STRAC-BOM’s headquarters. General X-Ray paced down the row of men, each of whom had meticulously arranged his gear and weapons in front of his. In addition to his desert combat fatigues, the General wore a vintage World War II tanker helmet with matching goggles propped on top. He slowly walked down the line, examining the eclectic collection of spare fatigues, dehydrated food, plastic gallon jugs of water, tents, and sleeping bags.

“Private Foxtrot!” the General bellowed. “Where is your duct tape?”

“Right here, sir,” the private replied, pulling the tape from his rucksack. “Forgot to take it out. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t let it happen again, private,” the General scolded. “Each man is required to carry the appropriate equipment for immobilizing prisoners at all times.”

Continuing down the row, the General surveyed his troops’ weapons. They were an odd mix of old shotguns and deer rifles. The General, however, sported a pair of silver pistols with ivory grips holstered at his waist.

“Fire Team Leader Bravo!” the General barked. “How many rounds of ammunition for your weapon?”

“Seventeen rounds for my scatter gun, sir,” Fire Team Leader Bravo responded. “But ten of them got wet when them Mexican Federales tossed me off the bridge.”

“Well, mind you use the dry ones first.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Resuming his review, the General noticed a Louisville Slugger with a taped handle resting in front of Fire Team Leader Charlie. He bent over at the waist to closely examine the baseball bat, and then slowly turned his gaze up to its owner.

“I know what you’re thinking, general,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said sheepishly. “But my brother-in-law took my deer rifle for a hunting trip in New Mexico this weekend. This was the best I could do.”

“See here, Fire Team Leader,” the General said. “I will not have you endangering our mission because you surrendered your weapon to a civilian. Fire Team Leader Alpha! What additional weapons do we have in the armory?”

“Sir, I believe we have a pellet gun remaining,” Fire Team Leader Alpha responded. “Maybe a wrist rocket, too.”

“Good man,” the General replied. “Fire Team Leader Charlie, retrieve both weapons from the armory, but make sure you sign them out first.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reaching the last man in the row, the General noticed something odd.

“Private Zulu!” the General shouted as he pointed to the offending object with his riding crop. “What in the hell is that thing?”

“A handheld video game, sir,” the private responded. “I just got the new Zombie Slaughter 5.0 yesterday.”

“There are absolutely no video games allowed in night operations!” the General bellowed.

“If it helps, I can play it with my headphones on,” the private responded timidly.

“Out of the question!” the General roared. “The enemy could spot the illumination of the screen from miles away. You’ll jeopardize the safety of every man on the mission. Hand it over immediately.”

The despondent private offered the game up.

“Headphones, too.”

“Here, sir.”

“You’ll receive this back after Operation Land Shark concludes,” the General said as he put the game in one of the cargo pockets of his fatigue trousers. “Now, men,” the General moved back in front of the entire group, stopping to pick up a manila folder from the table behind him on the way, “you all know the dangers of night operations along the border, and given the unfortunate conclusion to Operation Water Lion, I’ve taken the liberty of having some simple liability waivers and hold harmless agreements drafted for you to sign.”

“What do we need them for, general?” asked Private Tango.

“Really more for me than you, private,” the General responded as he handed the stack to the first man in line. “A simple formality. Take one and pass them down.”

The men grumbled as they reviewed the four-page document.

“Shouldn’t we have a lawyer look at these?” asked Fire Team Leader Alpha.

“The attorney that drafted them for me already looked at them,” the General answered. “He said they looked fine. Now, men, repack your gear, gather your weapons, and meet me in the motor pool with your signed releases so we can commence with ATV training.”

A few minutes later, the men of STRAC-BOM reassembled in the motor pool. Actually, it wasn’t as much a motor pool as it was a gravel parking lot outside their cinder-block headquarters. Parked beside the team’s collection of rusted and battered trucks and sedans sat three blaze-orange four-wheeled ATVs and a black and white zebra-striped dirt bike.

“Fire Team Leader Alpha!” General X-Ray bellowed. “What is the major malfunction with these vehicles?”

“Sir! What do you mean, sir?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked.

“First of all,” the General said as he slapped the dirt bike with his riding crop. “This is not an ATV, son! You were specifically instructed to requisition four ATVs!”

“Sorry, general,” he responded sheepishly. “We sold the other one yesterday. All I could get as a replacement was the dirt bike.”

“No other options?”

“Not that my boss would approve. But don’t worry, that bike has the biggest engine we sell. It’s a heck of a lot faster than the ATVs.”

“Well, it’ll have to do,” the General said dejectedly. “Now, what about these paint schemes? They’re damn near fluorescent! Hardly suitable for covert operations. What happened to the desert camouflage I requested?”

“Well, my boss said that since we were renting and not buying, we couldn’t special order.”

“Nonsense! Private Zulu, find some black shoe polish and at least break up the outline of these vehicles in a similar fashion to the motor bike. That one’s at least marginally passable for concealment.”

“Yes sir!” Private Zulu shouted as he turned and ran back into the building, promptly tripping and falling directly on his face. General X-Ray shook his head in frustration as the private regained his feet and sprinted into the headquarters, leaving the door open behind him in his haste.

“Close the door behind you, private!” the General shouted. “You’ll let out all my refrigerated air!”

“Yes, sir,” the private replied, sticking his head out of the doorway before slamming it shut behind him.

“That boy is so dumb he couldn’t play dead in a cowboy movie,” the General said, rubbing his forehead. “Listen up, men,” he commanded. “Fire Team Leader Alpha will now illustrate the all-important features of these vehicles.”

“Turn on here,” the Fire Team Leader began, pointing to a switch on one of the ATVs. “And turn off here. Twist the throttle here for speed and pull the brake lever to stop. Remember, lean into your turns, and keep your attention focused down the trail, not right in front of you. Oh, and the headlights are right here.”

“No headlights!” the General barked. “Do you even understand what a covert night operation is?”

“Sir, the terrain out there is pretty tricky in the day, much less in the dark.”

“I don’t care if it’s dark as the belly of a whale, Fire Team Leader. No headlights. Do you men get me?”

“We get you, sir,” the men replied in unenthusiastic unison.

“Okay, Fire Teams. Mount your vehicles and follow Fire Team Leader Alpha’s ATV across that there gully, around that large boulder way over there,” the General said, pointing to a large rock approximately two hundred yards away and barely visible in the dusky twilight. “Then return your vehicles here. You have one hundred and twenty seconds. Privates in front and Fire Team Leaders ride shotgun.”