Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Dang it!” Fire Team Leader Bravo said as he cut his finger with his pocketknife.

“Let me see,” said Private Tango as he turned on his flashlight to examine the wound. “Ain’t nothing but a paper cut.”

“Hurts like hell, though.”

“Turn that light off!” commanded the General, who had moved forward to see what the commotion was all about. “You’ll give away our position. Now, what’s all the noise about?”

“Just cut my finger, sir,” replied the Fire Team Leader.

“Is it on your trigger finger?” the General inquired.

“No, sir.”

“Then tape an aspirin to it and get back on watch. These illegal aliens are sneaky.”

“Sir,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said. “I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones out here. We haven’t seen anything but those two bodies in the desert in two whole nights. The men are exhausted from lack of sleep, and we haven’t had anything hot to eat since we got out here. Don’t you think maybe we ought to pack it up and go home? We could still get back in time for breakfast.”

“And just how tired and hungry were the American soldiers stranded in the Ardennes? They didn’t surrender at the Battle of the Bulge, did they? Quit your bellyaching and continue your mission. Operation Land Shark concludes at 1800 hours.”

“Jeez, general,” moaned Private Zulu as he shined his flashlight on his wristwatch. “That’s a whole 1500 hours from now.”

“Turn off that damned light!” the General screamed. “I want complete noise and illumination integrity restored in this foxhole!” he ordered as he returned to his command post.

Three hundred yards to the southwest of STRAC-BOM’s position, El Barquero made his way silently through the brush and rocky outcroppings of the desert floor. His night vision equipment had alerted him to the presence of a group of men and their vehicles camped along the ridgeline. It didn’t take long to ascertain that they weren’t cartel soldiers or law enforcement. Still, he didn’t want to have them involved in his work this evening, so he passed them to the east, giving them a wide berth. Through his goggles, he could make out movement to his south. It was three men carrying parcels on their backs. They appeared to be armed with assault rifles. Memo had been correct. The shipment was right on schedule. El Barquero quietly checked his weapons and moved toward the advancing men, looking to intercept their route.

Two hundred yards to the northwest of STRAC-BOM’s camp, Agents Hank Martin and Maria Diaz scanned the campsite and valley below.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Agent Martin asked as he peered through his night vision goggles.

“Sure do,” Agent Diaz replied. “Looks like three men advancing on our militia boys.”

“Look to your ten o’clock. I’ve got a single moving southwest as well.”

“You think it’s one of the militia?” Agent Diaz asked as she located the lone figure moving across the valley floor.

“Nope. I’ve got all seven of them located around their camp. Who the hell is that guy?”

“What do you want to do?”

“For right now, we’re going to watch. Can’t tell for sure, but the three men to the south look like they might be narco transporters. Maybe the Lone Ranger over there is their contact. But where’s his vehicle? Damn. Come on, I want to move up a little closer. Don’t want that crazy general getting an itchy trigger finger.”

“Right behind you,” Agent Diaz said as she grabbed her shotgun and followed her partner into the darkness.

El Barquero knelt in the brush in front of a small outcropping of rock. The three Mexican drug mules walked quickly through the darkness toward his position. He could tell for certain now that the men were carrying AK-47s, but they had them slung over their shoulders as they carried the loads of drugs. The rocky outcropping gave him cover from the large group of men on the ridgeline above that he had spotted earlier. He wanted to take out the couriers quietly, without the men above noticing any activity. He knew he was strong enough to carry the three packages, but he wouldn’t be able to move fast across the broken ground. If he couldn’t get away cleanly, he’d noticed several points along the way where he could stash the load if necessary, but he didn’t want to do that. This was the last score. After this, he knew the Padre would come for him. Raising his submachine gun to his shoulder, he waited for the men to advance closer to his hidden position. When they reached twenty-five yards from his location, they would pay the “Ferryman’s” toll.

Behind El Barquero, the men of STRAC-BOM continued to scan the dark valley for movement, even if some of the men’s heads were beginning to bob from fatigue.

“Hey, Fire Team Leader,” Private Foxtrot said to his foxhole mate. “You see that down there?”

“What, uh, where?” Fire Team Leader Alpha replied as he wiped the drool that had accumulated on his chin from dozing off to sleep for the last ten minutes.

“No fair, you were sleeping.”

“Was not. What’d you see?”

“Right down there,” Private Foxtrot said, pointing to an area a little past a small outcropping of rock. “Think I saw something moving this way.”

“Ok, better get the General.” The Fire Team Leader turned to yell for the General but, thinking better of it, decided to scamper back to the command post and tell him in person. “General,” he whispered in the dark as he approached the militia’s dining fly. “General, you there?”

“Password!” the General barked as he brandished one of his pearl-handled revolvers at the figure approaching in the dark.

“Uh, we don’t have one, sir.”

“Identify yourself, then.”

“Fire Team Leader Alpha, sir. I think we’ve got something moving down below.”

“Well, then, what the hell are we waiting for?” the General demanded as he followed the Fire Team Leader back to his foxhole.

“Tell him what you saw, private,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said to Private Foxtrot as he and the General crawled into the shallow foxhole.

“Something moving out there, sir. Right over there,” the private said, pointing past the outcropping, barely visible in the dark night sky.

“Lock and load, men,” the General whispered as he prepared his flare gun. “I’m going to light ’em up!”

El Barquero prepared to kill the three drug couriers, who were still unaware of his presence and closing in on his position. All of a sudden, a faint popping sound from behind froze the giant man in place. The sizzling flare arcing over his head immediately explained the noise. Pulling his night vision goggles from his face, he prepared for the flare’s detonation. Bright red light filled the desert floor as the flare exploded, revealing his position to the cartel couriers with their heavy burlap-wrapped loads of drugs. Deciding it was too late to pull back, El Barquero sprayed three bursts of gunfire at his targets, killing the two men closest to him instantly, but only wounding the third. El Barquero quickly changed the submachine gun magazine as he closed the distance between the wounded man and himself. From his back, the wounded courier struggled to bring his weapon up to take aim at the enormous dark figure rushing toward him through the eerie red glow of the flare’s light. El Barquero and the cartel mule fired at the same time. El Barquero’s burst hit the man square in the chest, while the other man’s burst fired loudly and high off its target.

“Firefight!” General X-Ray screamed, responding to the unmistakable noise of AK-47 fire as he viewed the scene unfolding below him. “Man your vehicles and follow me! A cavalry charge is our tactical advantage! I’m going on foot to pin them down!” The men of STRAC-BOM, all fully awake at this point, scrambled towards their rides as the General stumbled down the slope, his pear-shaped silhouette glowing red in the flickering light of the flare.