7)
Come On Baby, Kick
Them Daisies
El Paso, Texas
Devil’s Triangle area
“Maiden-actual, this is Ringo-6,”
Mike Ragland, Titan’s sniper, said over comms hoarsely, “I have a vehicle south
of our position moving north along Norton Street. Request initiation of Daisy Duke, how copy?” Ragland and Rhino’s sniper, Toby Skeen, were situated
on opposite ends of the street. Mike
Ragland – call sign Ringo-6 – was
situated on the upper floor of an old, dilapidated, and burned out warehouse on
the west side of Norton Street. His
sniper hide, set deep into one of the upper floor offices of the old warehouse,
was draped in a dark, felt tarp, and he lay on an old desk he had pulled from
another room. To the untrained eye – or,
a highly skilled one for that matter – Ringo-6 and by association, his hide
site, simply did not exist. North of Ragland’s
position, Toby Skeen – call sign Honda due
to his Asian descent – had constructed a similar hide site a little over two
hundred meters away. Their geometrical
positioning afforded the team overlapping fields of fire while their elevated
hide sites nullified the chances for a blue
on blue – good guys shooting other good guys.
“Good copy, Ringo-6,” replied Tommy
Granderson, Rhino’s TL and OIC – officer
in charge – of Task Force Iron Maiden.
“Overhead feed shows it to be a late model Ford. You sure about this?”
“No,” replied Ragland as he shifted his weight slightly and got down
on his scope. He’d spent the better part
of the day ranging damned near every crack in the sidewalk, the distances were
a non-issue for someone with his skillset, and the wind was nonexistent. In short, this would be like shooting the
proverbial fish in the barrel.
“Maiden-two, what’s the call?” asked Granderson to his 2IC – Tim
Meadows, Titan’s TL. Tim was the
operations commander and his word was absolute.
It was ground truth.
“The sun’s beginning to set, Tommy.
If this is going to go down, it’s going to happen soon.”
“Roger that,” Granderson agreed and
added quickly, “sending out Viper-13 now.
If the vehicle needs stopping, she’ll stop it.”
“That’s the understatement of the
year,” Meadows responded sarcastically.
Using his helmet’s RRT or retinal recognition technology, he called up
the intra-squad comm-link. “Lock it
down, gentlemen. Daisy Duke’s a go. Repeat, Daisy Duke’s a go.”
The name of the op had come about insidiously enough. It all started when Trace Edwards, Rhino
team’s medic, jokingly suggested Daisy
Duke as the codename during the operation’s initial planning stages. Edwards’ call sign was Bleep due to his prodigious use of the oft-maligned curse word – fuck.
A Chief Petty Officer in SEAL Team 5 prior to moving over to SKUL
and true connoisseur of unfiltered speech, the man could weave the word into
common phrases of nearly a dozen languages.
It was so bad, Edwards’ wife openly prayed to be given the divine
ability to put her husband’s interactions with their children, friends, family
– pretty much anyone with a brain and a heartbeat – on a five second delay,
just so she could bail when her husband really got rolling. As ideas began to congeal together into a
workable mission plan, Bleep noted certain similarities between what was being
suggested and an early episode of the iconic ‘70s sitcom, The Dukes of Hazzard.
Specifically, he was referring to the episode in which Daisy stepped out
in front of a moving truck wearing nothing but high heels, sunglasses, a red
bikini, and – in the SKUL shooter’s own words – a fuck-me-down smile. In that
episode, Daisy shut down traffic long enough for Bo and Luke to cuff and stuff the bad guys. After the initial acknowledgement and
subsequent head nods of affirmation, Bleep pounded his fists on the table and
exclaimed, “This is so fuckin’ close to the fuckin’ scene in the fuckin’ show,
we might as well fuckin’ call and ask for a fuckin’ copy of the fuckin’ script!”
The codename stuck; and, while mortified, Sam reluctantly agreed with
the mission parameters.
“Roger,” called the squad of SKUL
shooters in near unison. Nestled deep
within the shadows of two similarly burned out buildings, Tim Meadows and the
bulk of both SKUL’s Titan and Rhino teams were poised as the QRF or quick reaction force. If everything went according to plan, their
presence would never be known to anyone.
If it didn’t, the QRF’s presence would likely be known to everyone
within five square miles. While every
voice was measured and confident when a-firming their understanding that the
mission was moving forward, their throats were also tight with tension. This was a dangerous play on the part of
Granderson. Regardless of the overall
outcome, Sam would be exposed, and her only hope for survival would come in the
way of sniper rounds and the quick reaction team. If anything at all went haywire, there was a
one hundred percent chance the operators would be the highlight feature of a total
and unadulterated shit-show in the short side of a millisecond.
Regardless of the dangers involved, if they were to close on El Lobo,
the mission had to happen. The
information provided by the women they rescued out in the desert had helped the
task force narrow their search. As a
result, Iron Maiden was able to narrow their focus to a downtrodden and, quite
frankly, dangerous part of town – the Devil’s Triangle. According to the women, this was El Lobo’s
current center of activity within the borders of the US. One of the hookers, a younger girl calling
herself Gypsy, went on to say that the cartel had moved into this part of town
about two years ago. The arrival of El
Lobo immediately shut down the Devil’s Triangle area to outside influence including
rival cartels and law enforcement. She
also noted the takeover of this poverty-stricken area of northeast El Paso had
been eerily quick and without the blood soaked streets common among warring
cartels. Gypsy further added another
oddity of the appearance of El Lobo and their subsequent takeover. Apparently, what the takeover lacked in
bloodshed and overt mayhem, it more than made up for in missing persons. The number of disappearances had become so
high and common that the citizenry of El Paso moved about with the crippling
fear that they could be next. It was
Gypsy’s testimony more than any other that caught the interest of the two SI-2’s
handling the aftermath of the desert operation.
An SI-2 is a second tier SKUL intelligence officer that carries on with
their normal lives until there is documented werewolf activity in their
area. Once this occurs, the SI-2’s take
an active role in gathering intelligence, creating cover stories and backstops
for the SKUL operators sent into their area, and work to prepare the
battlespace for follow-on missions.
While not fulltime SKUL assets, these brave men and women are considered
the backbone of SKUL’s vast intelligence apparatus. To the SI-2’s sifting through Gypsy’s
testimony, these disappearances, while seemingly random to the untrained eye,
had a single commonality that made them anything but random. None of the individuals that had been
abducted lived or were taken within the well-documented borders of the Devil’s
Triangle.
Not one and there were literally dozens upon dozens of active missing
persons cases on the El Paso Police Department’s dockets. There was no way that was a coincidence; so,
with the help of the SI-2’s, Task Force Iron Maiden narrowed their focus. Eventually, the task force was able to put
together a solid mission package that, if it went off in the manner proposed, was
sure to lead to intelligence concerning multiple, follow-on targets. If that happened, and everyone recognized
that was a huge if, there stood a
very good chance that the task force could hunt down and eliminate the
cartel. Or, at the very least, kill
enough of the savages that those left alive would drag their asses back across
the border.
However it would shake out, Tommy Granderson’s words on the night
before initiating Operation Daisy Duke pulled at the heartstrings of every SKUL
shooter and intelligence officer involved.
The Oklahoman had exclaimed in a fashion that was purely his own, “I
want these sumbitches dead. I mean, I want
you guys to lay the fuckin’ hate on these savages. I want it so every fuckin’ werewolf in this
city is so fucked up on fear they start crawling their asses into cemeteries
and digging their own graves to hide in!”
But, that was last night while in the relative comfort of Iron
Maiden’s safe house. This was game
time. This was when the SKUL shooters
had to make physical Granderson’s words.
For the operators of Task Force Iron Maiden, this little section of
town situated on the ass-end of nowhere could have just as easily been Beirut
or Mogadishu or any one of a dozen other shitholes on the planet as it was a
United States city. The Triangle was
third world in every sense save its location.
The few people found walking its streets were mean with hopelessness,
and you could practically sense the ugly in the air.
Presently, Sam stepped from low-income housing unit that she was
using as a base of operations. Her dark
hair fell loosely over bare shoulders, her lips were seductively pouty, and her
olive skin glowed with a copper hue in the waning rays of daylight. She wore dark sunglasses, black, six-inch
heels, a matching black miniskirt that hugged her hips in all the right places,
and a skintight, blood red, and backless halter-top.
The ensemble left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Never fuckin’ gets old does it?” the expletive slinging Bleep asked
the man beside him. It was obvious to
Bleep that in a contest pitting Daisy Duke in high heels and a red bikini
against Samantha Steele in high heels, a tight skirt, and a little-to-nothing
halter-top, the winner was…everyone.
“Nope,” the other SKUL shooter replied.
“Ah, you pervs do realize you’re
talking over squad net, right?” hissed Sam who was mic’d up for voice
recognition purposes. She also wore a
tiny, nondescript ear bud tuned into the squad net.
“Awe fuck, Sam, sorry,” Bleep
replied in an appropriately sheepish voice.
“Knock it off!” bellowed Granderson
over comms from Iron Maiden’s safe house.
“Sam, screw the Ford. We’ve got a
crew of El Lobo wolves on overhead.
Three mikes out and closing from the south.”
“Confirmed?” the sizzling hot beauty
said to seemingly no one in particular.
The Ford passed her position.
The old man driving nearly had a head-on collision with a parked car
as he rubbernecked to see what he’d later describe to friends as a curbside Aztec goddess.
“Affirmative. Thermals are off the chart. The inside of the car is freaking nuclear,
Sam,” Tommy replied. “Ringo-6, they are
stopped at a stop sign. You on it?”
“Roger,” came Ragland’s measured
response.
“This is a one shot deal,
people. Make it work.”
***
“Hold up, esé, hold up!” the El Lobo wolf ordered from the back of the 1960 Pontiac
“Hold up, esé, hold up!” the El Lobo wolf ordered from the back of the 1960 Pontiac
Bonneville. The car was cherry red with a bone white racing stripe and white-walled tires. The
old tank of a car slowed to a stop and, with the hydraulics engaged, the front of the car began to
bounce off the ground. The move was equal parts Mexican machismo and douchebag idiocy,
but the three savages in the car were so stoned on blood and lust they did not care. “Damn,
holmes, look at that fine piece of ass!”
They practically fell over themselves as the woman crossed the street in front of their
ride. When she was directly in front of the garish low-rider, Sam lowered her glasses and blew
the savages a kiss. Fear rippled over her skin as she watched their eyes begin to glow yellow in the
early evening shadows. She knew they were beginning to lose control, and she needed to get
off the street fast. Even so, she managed to stay in character long enough to accomplish what
she came for. By the time she reached the other side, the three young werewolves were practically
fighting each other, and a low growl permeated the air of the coming night. Thankfully, the car
moved on down the street as she disappeared down a narrow passageway that ran between two
large low income housing developments.
The previous moment’s commotion inside of the car had been exactly what Ragland
needed, and the savages never heard the little plink Ringo-6’s round made as it hit the roof of the
car.
***
“Maiden-actual, this is Maiden-two. The target is tagged, and Sam’s off the street.
We are sterilizing the area now. Will move to exfil point Boss Hawg in forty-five mikes for
extraction to Boar’s Nest, how copy?”
Across town, Tommy Granderson and TFIM’s intel analyst took a collective sigh of
relief before Tommy allowed, “Solid copy, Maiden-two. RTB in forty-five mikes.”
Beside Tommy, Callaway spoke quickly with the Pegasus drone’s pilot who was stationed
back on the Silver Moon. He confirmed that the pilot was to break loiter and thanked him for
the assist before breaking the connection. Once done, Callaway brought a ruggedized laptop
online and blazed away on the keyboard for a second before turning its screen to Granderson with
a smile. A red dot appeared and began blinking on a digitized map a city. The little dot moved
slowly through the streets in the northeast section of El Paso. That dot was coming from a
microscopic GPS transponder delivered by a state-of-the-art, hardened plant resin identical in
form and function to a 7.62 sniper round. The transponder itself was further encapsulated in an
adhesive that would harden within the hour. While the remints of the plant resin round would
dissolve with the morning dew, the hardened adhesive would look like nothing more than a
clump of tree sap to anyone who had anything less than the most untrained of eyes. Mike
Ragland – a.k.a Ringo-6 – had just placed that particular bit of scientific wonderment on the
roof of a car belonging to members of the El Lobo cartel. And, he’d done so with surgical
precision.
Tommy returned John Callaway’s smile with one of his own, “It’s time to start
laying the hate, John.”
***
Task Force Iron Maiden’s Safe House
2300
Sam sat in her room wearing a pair of boxers and a T-shirt while sipping on a glass of
Pinot. It had been a long and ultimately successful few days in more ways than one. The
operational success was obvious within the first few moments after the mission. They had
successfully tagged members of the El Lobo cartel and were now mapping their movements.
Upon their return, Tommy and Tim had spent the better part of two hours war-gaming their
next move. In the end, the two decided that they wanted to map the movements of the
El Lobo membersover the next ninety-six hours. Each time they returned to a previously
visited home, office, or business that location moved up Iron Maiden’s target deck.
The clock was now officially ticking for El Lobo.
Sam tucked her lean, muscular legs lazily up under her while her fingers
worked furiously at the keyboard. Even among the most elite warrior class on Earth, even
among a shadowy organization that employed shadowy individuals, Samantha Steele was
somewhat of an enigma. Even now, behind closed doors and in comfortable clothes, she was
the very definition of irony. Was she the analyst or the assaulter, the scalpel or the hammer?
She shook her head at the questions. It had gotten to the point that even she was not quite sure
who she was, and tonight’s action did little to help her figure it out. She had been a part of
the intelligence gathering process and had packaged the concept into a workable plan.
But, that wasn’t enough.
No, it was never enough to just help out.
Just like her old DEVGRU days, she managed to place herself right in the mix, and
more so, she performed at an elite level. Speaking five languages without accent and a few
more so well only a local would ever pick her out as an outsider, Samantha Steele took
intelligence, toughness, and strength of will to a level rarely seen in the private sector much
less the military community at large.
The trill of her computer’s messenger system dragged her from her thoughts.
Hey babe, you awake
…
She leaned back in her chair for a moment. In a further stroke of irony, she hated
being called babe by anyone other than the sender of the message. Coming from him, it
was almost a comfort. The message was followed by the typical three dots denoting the
sender was online and waiting a response. With a sideways smile, she obliged.
Yeah. For a little while, at least. What’s up?
…
Nothing, just…nothing.
…
What, Dane?
It’s just that we’re back on Tortuga…have to find a replacement. It just feels wrong.
Again, Sam moved from the screen. This subject, more than anything – even
his divorce – was sacred ground to Dane Stackwell. Tweeker was an odd mix of smart,
tough older brother and stupid, get-your-ass-in-trouble best friend to Dane, and
his absence from SKUL’s roll call was digging into Dane’s subconscious.
Ansil would feel the same way if the roles were reversed, but he’d do it anyway. He’d hate it,
but he’d do whatever it took to defeat the savages. Sam paused, then added, How is he?
…
The same. Dane struggled with the words. It was like his old friend – and, in
many ways, his old mentor – had given up the fight.
…
And, Monica?
…
Pretty much heartbroken. You should probably give her a call.
…
I will.
…
You staying out of trouble? He always asked this question, knowing full well
she was incapable of staying out of trouble. It seemed to follow her everywhere.
…
Don’t I always? Sam punctuated the question with a winking smiley face.
…
No. Dane added his own smiley face.
…
I have to go, Dane. Bye.
…
Miss you.
…
…
…
Sam stared at her screen for a long moment. She knew how she wanted to respond,
but at the same time, recognized the can of worms she and Dane were potentially opening.
One thing was certain, at least to her, of whatever was becoming of she and Dane’s friendship
and that was that it would be frowned upon. But, that really was not what bothered her.
She could handle that. She had before. What really bothered her was that everyone she
ever got close to, everyone she ever allowed inside the hardened shell she had created for herself,
got hurt.
Every last one of them.
But, this thing with Dane, whatever it was, felt different.
Maybe it was the situation they were currently in, separated by thousands of miles and
each in harm’s way more times than any two humans should be, but it felt right. She took
a breath and said out loud to an empty room, “Got to take a chance sometime, Sam,” then
responded to Dane’s message with:
Miss you too, Dane.
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