Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Sir,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. “Shouldn’t I at least drive one of the ATVs? I’ve got the most experience.”

“Nonsense!” the General responded. “Senior Officers need to have unencumbered vision of the battlefield in order to deliver precise tactical orders to their Fire Teams.”

“Okay, sir, but I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Never question my orders in front of the men, Fire Team Leader!”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Wait for me!” cried Private Zulu as he raced back to the gathered men, holding a container of shoe polish with a foam applicator. “Sir, should I stripe these battle rides up now, sir?”

“No,” the General replied. “Join your Fire Team Leader for the exercise. You can camouflage the vehicles when we’ve completed training.”

Private Zulu mounted his ATV and grabbed onto the handlebars while Fire Team Leader Charlie grasped him firmly around the waist.

“T-minus three…” The General began counting down, pointing his riding crop directly up into the air with one hand while looking intently at the stopwatch in his other, “two…one…ignition!”

Two of the ATVs roared to life and noisily sped off toward the gully, while Private Zulu searched in vain for his kick-start pedal, repeatedly jacking his foot up and down, trying to find purchase on a pedal that wasn’t there.

“What in the Sam Hill are you doing, private?” the General inquired.

“Trying to fire it up, sir?”

“Fire Team Leader. Point out the ignition switch to the private. The clock is running.”

“It’s right there, private,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he leaned forward to point out the starter.

“Gotcha,” the private said as the ATV roared to life. “Geronimo!” He screamed as he hammered back the throttle, dumping Fire Team Leader Charlie, who hadn’t fully regained his seat, directly off the back of the ATV. Private Zulu tore off after the other two vehicles that were rapidly approaching the gully, oblivious to his fallen comrade.

“Dammit!” the General swore. “Never leave a man behind!” Fire Team Leader Charlie dusted himself off and chased after Private Zulu. “Morons!” the General said in disgust as he checked his stopwatch.

Fire Team Alpha and Bravo’s ATVs jockeyed for position as they noisily bounced over the rough terrain, swiftly approaching the rugged six-foot-deep gully with sloped walls. They reached the lip of the gully neck and neck as both teams flew down the embankment. Upon reaching the bottom of the gully, both privates poured on the gas and launched their machines up the far side. Like a pair of synchronized swimmers, they both shot off the top lip of the gully and directly up into the air with the noses of their ATVs pointing straight at the sky. Simultaneously, the pull of gravity slowed their vehicles’ ascent. With balloon-like quad tires spinning and engines still revved to the max, both teetered over backward and crashed back to the bottom of the gully, spilling the men in all directions and kicking up an enormous cloud of dust.

“I think I broke my giblets,” Private Tango cried as he climbed to his feet, holding his throat with both hands.

“Damage assessment, Private Foxtrot,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha as he dusted himself off and examined the upside-down ATVs his soon-to-be former employer had rented them.

“I’m okay,” the private replied. “Just got some dirt in my teeth and skinned my knees up a fair bit.”

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Fire Team Leader Bravo. “I think we pulled a half gainer.”

“No,” moaned Private Tango, now clutching his stomach with both hands. “I think I pulled my whole gainer.”

“What the hell happened?” asked Private Zulu as he pulled his ATV up to the lip of the gully. “You guys doing some kind of moon shot?”

“Where’s your Team Leader, private?” Fire Team Leader Alpha inquired.

“My who?” Private Zulu turned to look behind him. “Hey, where’d he go?”

It took the men a good ten minutes to get the ATVs righted and safely up the far side of the gully. In the meantime, an out-of-breath Fire Team Leader Charlie had rejoined the group.

“Okay, boys,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. “I’m driving now. Stay close and follow me. You can’t hardly see your hand in front of your face it’s so damn dark.”

Another fifteen minutes later, the men had rounded the boulder and dejectedly returned bruised, battered, and dusty to the motor pool. Parking their ATVs, the men literally fell off their machines. The General was sitting in a folding chair with his legs crossed and still holding his stopwatch as he shook his head in disappointment. Surveying his motley and defeated brigade, the General clicked off his stopwatch, clinched his eyes shut, and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“I don’t even want to know,” he muttered.

El Barquero pulled his car off the dirt road and up to the metal gate that guarded the road to the farm. The four men who stood beside the gate drinking cerveza and smoking cigarettes around a small gas lamp eyed him with suspicion. One of the guards picked up his assault rifle and cautiously approached the car as the other three slowly moved around the car to block its movement forward or back. One of the men circling the car produced a field radio and spoke into it. El Barquero rolled down the driver’s-side window and looked at the armed man who approached. As he neared the window, another guard used a long, black metal flashlight to illuminate El Barquero’s face. El Barquero didn’t flinch in spite of the blinding light; instead, he stared directly into the eyes of the approaching silhouette of the man with the gun. Coming closer, the guard turned and nodded to his partner to shut off the light as he recognized the powerfully built man behind the wheel.

“They’re in the barn,” he said as he pointed down the road. “The Padre has been waiting for you. Let him through.”

Two of the men pulled the metal gate aside to allow the car to pass. El Barquero pulled his car onto the dark, rutted gravel road that would take him the last few miles to his destination. He had been in the car for more than six hours, including the time waiting to cross the border. He was now about twenty miles outside of Piedras Negras in the Mexican State of Coahuila, across the border from Eagle Pass, Texas. It was near the western edge of his cartel’s territory along the Texas border. He had driven straight through from Houston, where he had finalized the details of his latest gun delivery for the cartel. This was the largest shipment he had ever made. It was a plan he had been grooming and cultivating for nearly six months.

Normally, he sourced firearms in relatively small quantities. For years, the easiest way had been to employ dummy buyers to purchase weapons legally from gun shops, firearms shows, hunting and fishing retailers, sporting goods stores, pawn shops, private dealers, and even chains of mega-warehouse stores. The lax background checks employed by these legitimate dealers made accumulating pistols, rifles, shotguns, and even semi-automatic assault-style weapons that could be converted to fire in full automatic mode relatively easy. The weapons purchased were perfectly legal except that the dummy buyers would then pass the weapons on to El Barquero, who would mark up their price and move them across the border. His buyers were paid for their work, sometimes in cash, sometimes in drugs…and sometimes when they had outlived their usefulness, they paid him with their lives. The problem with this method was that it was time-consuming. The National Rifle Association and its numerous influential Washington lobbyists had made civilian purchases of powerful assault weapons relatively uncomplicated for someone with a clean record. Law-abiding citizens needed assault rifles for hunting and to protect their homes, and the Second Amendment protected that right, they argued. However, you still couldn’t send a dummy buyer into a sporting goods store to buy one hundred Colt AR-15s without drawing suspicion. It took time to accumulate a significant amount of merchandise to transport.