Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Holy War

Sunday. Recently. Just after church.
I woke with a start as the door to my compound slammed closed. I was out of bed and in a combat-crouch in a second, a ten-inch combat knife (autographed by Oliver North) in my hand. Heavy footsteps coming down the hall towards my bedroom. I glanced towards the window.
"Randy!" my mom called from the hallway. "Get up, I've got good news!" Damnit.
"Mom, you could have been killed." I undid the padlock and chain, unlocked the four deadbolts, and opened my bedroom door. "You know you're supposed to yell 'code driftwood' when you come in."
"Oh, I'm sorry honey," she said. "But--Randy, what are you wearing?" I glanced down at my bikini briefs, the black ones with the message on the front. All Merc and No Play.
"Sorry, Mom. Didn't expect you home so soon." I covered myself with the towel I keep beside my bed for soaking up the night-sweats.
"Come on out to the living room, honey, I've got great news. But get dressed first."
She thudded back down the hall. She's a large woman, God bless her, but I love her. That's why I agreed to move in with her after my wife left me. I knew she'd need the protection in this age of terror. Hell, I even let her pay the bills, so she can feel like she's contributing something.
I dressed, combed my mustache, and wandered into the living room to find my mom joined by Reverend Forrest, the chief sky-pilot at the First Baptist Church of the Little Baby Jesus, her congregation.
"Brother Randy," Forrest said, standing to hug me.
"Reverend," I said, grudgingly accepting his embrace. He smiled too much for my taste, and I don't like guys hugging me anyway. Che Guevara was a hugger, you know.
"You missed a good churchin' today, Randy," Forrest said. "Guess you were...Busy?" He cast his eyes towards my bedroom.
"It was a good sermon," my mom said, saving me. "Reverend Forrest said that Jesus has a list of everyone who voted for Bush, and that when evolutionists make Baby Jesus cry, he just reads that list and it cheers him right up."
"Interesting," I said. Bush is a bit liberal if you ask me, but then again those church types are all soft-hearted. "Shame I missed it."
"Sure is," Forrest said, still beaming, "but you'll be seein' plenty of the church so don't you worry."
"I will?" Uh-oh. My mom hadn't signed me up for the choir again, had she?
"Tell him the good news, Reverend," Mom said.
"The Good News is, Jesus is Lord," Forrest said. "And the other good news is, I've got a job for you." He lowered his voice and added, "your mama says you've been out of work."
"Well, heck--pardon my French, Reverend--I need a job, but I don't know what kinda preacher I'd make."
Forrest and my mom burst out laughing, a bit longer than I thought was absolutely appropriate.
"Whew, that's a good one," Reverend Forrest said, wiping his eyes. "No, Randy, this job's right up your alley. Unlike--"
"Preaching!" Mom exclaimed, and they had another laugh.
"So what's the damned job? Darned job."
"Well, we've had some vandalism outside the church. Looks like the Devil got a hold of some teenagers and made 'em spraypaint a real ugly word on the door to the Spirit-Filled Singles Center."
"A REAL ugly word," my mom added, shaking her head sadly.
"Anyway," the Reverend continued, "we need us a security guard to work nights. I figure that's when them little bastards--I mean, them lost lambs--done it, at night."
Hell yes! Finally, some real mercenary work for me. I was practically drooling at the prospect, but tried to hide my excitement until we negotiated money.
"Sounds alright so far," I said. "How much a head?"
"What do you mean?"
"Reverend, they're probably just teenagers. We oughta return the torsos to their families."
"Randy's just jokin'," my mom said for some reason. "He wants the job, and he'll do real good. Six dollars an hour would be fine, Reverend, just like we talked about."
"Well..." He looked at me curiously. "Fine, then."
Saturday. 0200 hours. That's really late, to you civvies.
I was getting bored, and that was dangerous. Complacency can get you killed, but, Christ, I'd been outside the church every night now for almost a week, and still no action. I had set up my hide just outside the single's center, with the church itself at three o' clock, which with my NVG's gave me a good view of all the potential approaches to the property. I flipped the switch on my night-vision goggles and peered over my sandbags for another look around. Treeline. Nothing there. Single's Center--nothing there but the word "vagina" still painted on the door. I had suggested they leave it, for evidence. I scanned towards the church. Did something move in the bushes? I waited. Nothing. With a sigh, I turned the NVG's on the Guns & Ammo magazine I'd purchased earlier that day, hoping the article on concealed carry laws would keep me awake.
Then--a low creaking sound from the church. Door opening?
Instantly alert, I grabbed the shotgun I had borrowed from the Reverend. He'd fought me on the issue but thankfully I won that argument. I'd need all the firepower the Browning 12-gauge could offer. It was action time.
I belly-crawled around the perimeter of the church toward the front door, mentally double-checking my preparation as I did. Shotgun. Shell chambered. Knife. Strapped on and sharp as a razor. Camo. Head-to-toe, my face blackened with shoe polish as I'd run out of makeup. I paused and checked my canteen. Half full of chocolate milk. I hoped it would be enough.
After just over an hour of crawling, I got to the front of the church and had a look around the corner. Nothing in the eerie green glow of the NVG's but bushes and the steps to the front door. It's times like these that a man of action earns his money. Just before the shooting starts, those few seconds when lesser men decide to turn back and play it safe. I could crawl back to my hide, safe behind 500 sandbags, and let the police handle this situation. Yeah, and sit it out while some poorly-trained cops get killed by whoever was in that church. Not me. Not Randy McFab.
They had closed the door behind them--and locked it, I discovered when I gently tried the handle. No problem. Dynamic entry is one of my specialties. The shotgun in one hand, I slid off my backpack and removed my entry tool, a half-stick of dynamite I'd bought from a guy at a gun show. Fire in the Holy, I thought, and lit the fuse.
The explosion blew the door off the hinges, the flash of it temporarily blinding me even though the NVG's supposedly had circuitry to prevent that. Damned Jamaican equipment. Blind or not, I charged through the doorway, not wanting to lose the element of surprise.
I rolled, stood up, and waved the shotgun around in all directions, still unable to see.
"Nobody fucking drop your weapons!" I screamed. "I mean, nobody move! And drop your fucking weapons!" Silence, but for my own hyperventilating. My vision was slowly going from black back to NVG-green, but was still fuzzy. The smoke from the dynamite explosion didn't help visibility, either. Shit, the bad guys could be anywhere.
"Tell me when you drop your weapons, 'cause I can't see!" Still nothing. Then--out of the corner of my eye--someone there! Not a teenager, a grown man, and a biker or hippie by the look of him. I couldn't see if he was armed or not, but why take chances? The Browning roared.
I emptied the shotgun, sending all five shells' worth of 000-buckshot his way, then rolled behind a pew and back out the doorway.
Outside, I crouched by the steps and reloaded, not knowing if I'd killed the man or not--or if he'd been alone. It was time for reinforcements.
0400 hours.
Local SWAT had set up a perimeter before sending their boys inside. I waited outside with the County deputies while the entry team did their thing. After a few minutes inside, the SWAT guys emerged in their black BDU's, grinning as they dragged the corpse out.
"You're a bad man, McFab," one of them said as they threw the body down at my feet. "You killed Jesus."
"What?" I looked. Damn. It was the wooden statue of Jesus that stood by the altar, now looking a bit worse for wear after eating a pound of buckshot.
"Reverend ain't gonna like this, McFab," one of the cops said. "You killin' his saviour." The SWAT boys had a real good laugh at that, as I stood there, cheeks hot, not knowing what to say.
"That's right," another cop said. "I don't think you're cut out for police work, McFab. I reckon you oughta go back to being a famous mercenary."
"Hell yeah," another agreed. "Definite merc material."
Whew. They hadn't been laughing at ME, they'd been laughing at the situation, at the idea of a merc doing security-guard work.
"Yeah," I said, "guess I'm too quick on the trigger for badge work."
"Nah, McFab, great shootin'. You're a genuis."
Anyone could have mistaken Jesus for a criminal, and these boys realized that. They were probably impressed with how many times I had hit Him, as well. And to think, I had worried for a second they were making fun of me. I decided to get out of there before they begged me to go to work for County SWAT. A cop's life just wouldn't suit me, you know.
I'm a man of action.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Hard Luck o' the Irish

It was early afternoon, and I was headed home after a long day of job hunting. My first thought, of course, had been to enlist in the military, but I can't go to the recruiting office anymore since they took out that stupid restraining order. So instead of signing up to go to war, I spent the day being rejected by every male modeling agency I contacted, and I was not in a good mood.
I had the pedal to the metal, relieving some stress, the war wagon (my Mom's '96 Saturn) hugging the curves as I practiced my radio calls without a radio.
"All call signs," I said aloud. "This is Darth Spock, I'm A-19 in grid 53...Damn! A-16 in grid four." That's why we pros practice. It ain't easy.
The road into my subdivision-- Festering Springs Trailer Park-- is narrow; there's barely room for two cars to pass, and that's assuming both drivers are sober. As it's also a very low-traffic area, I couldn't help but think what a great place it would be to set up an ambush. Still, I wasn't concerned, and ripped through the curves at a near-suicidal 33 m.p.h. I rounded the last curve before the Festering Springs entrance, and--
Roadblock! Not cops, a civvy car, blocking the road ahead. Tangos, definitely, but what kind? Arabs? Nah, they're more into car bombs. French seperatists? No, too far from Quebec. Had to be Irish Republican Army, then. Mick terrorists set up these roadblocks, relying on the fact that most folks will panic, stop, and get taken hostage. Not me. I thought back to an article I had read in the June '85 Soldier of Fortune, about how to deal with a tango road ambush like this one. I could see now that the vehicle turned sideways across the road was a Cadillac, and did some quick weight/velocity computations in my highly-trained mind. There was only one solution, other than pulling over, and with mere seconds to spare I commited.
Blam! I T-boned the Caddy and knocked it into the trees beside the road, while I and the war wagon continued down the embankment on the opposite side. I caught a glimpse of two people diving for cover, and then everything went black as my Mom's car slammed into a boulder at the bottom of the ravine.
Smoke. Gas. A ticking sound as the Saturn's now-useless engine cooled down. God, how long had I been out? I checked myself for injuries, and was horrified when I felt the warm liquid seeping down my abdomen. Was I bleeding to death? Wait. I felt again, smelled, and realized that the urine-filled watergun I carry had shattered, covering me in what mercenaries call "pee pee." No worries. You haven't been to war if you haven't been soaked in your own urine. It did leave me without my main weapon, though, and I knew the tangos were probably on their way down the embankment to kill me, or capture me, right then. I pulled a back-up weapon from the glove-box and scrambled out of the car.
I heard a voice from the road, and clawed up the embankment towards it, my weapon at the ready. I paused just below the roadbed, shook the cobwebs out of my still-ringing head, and sprang.
"Nobody fucking move!" I yelled, scanning for targets. I couldn't believe what I found. Cowering by the wrecked Cadillac were Mr. and Mrs. James, the elderly black couple who live in a mobile home a few doors down from mine.
"Lord, Earl," Mrs. James said, "isn't that--"
"McFab!" Earl barked, rising to his feet. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"Christ, I feel like the world's biggest idiot," I said. "I mean, talk about stupid..."
"Damn right you're stupid, and wait'll I tell your mama what--"
"So stupid," I continued, "I didn't even realize that my own neighbors were IRA terrorists. Now, sit back down, Paddy, and no one gets hurt." I gestured with my weapon.
"Paddy? Goddamnit, McFab--"
"I tole you he was crazy," Mrs. James chimed in. "His poor ole mama said--"
"We're not Irish, you idiot!" Mr. James continued. "And what the hell are you doing with that toothbrush?"
"It's a combat knife," I said, and looked down. Shit. "Okay, it is a toothbrush. If you don't think I can kill with it, though, think again."
Mr. James set his jaw and stepped towards me, a lethal look in his eyes. "McFab," he said, "I've had a long day. I took Irene to the Krystal burger like she wanted, and I hate the damn Krystal burger."
"It gives him the runs," Irene said.
"Stay outta this, Irene. So I ate food I don't like, I got a bad case of the squirts, and then my car breaks down half a mile from our redneck-infested trailer park and the toilet I so badly need right now. That would be bad enough, but--"
"Plenty of toilets at Guantanamo Bay, Mickey O' Pipebomb. I'm sure they'll fix you right up."
"I was stationed at Gitmo, you wanna-be, no-account, livin'-with-your-mama--"
"His poor ole mama," Irene said.
"Idiot!" he finished, and closed the gap between us. I must have still been slowed down by the car-crash, because my usual panther-like reflexes weren't quick enough to respond before he had me on the ground, his hand clasped around my throat.
"Lord, don't kill him, Earl, " Irene said.
"Kill him? Hell, I'm gonna shove that toothbrush up his ass sideways!" He wrestled the toothbrush from my hand.
"Lord, his poor ole mama," Irene said. "Him comin' home with a toothbrush up there. Oh, Lord."
I struggled to find enough air to speak. "M...Mr...Mr. James...please..." He relaxed his grip slightly.
"You got somethin' to say, boy?"
"I-I'm sorry," I gasped. "Please...can't breathe..." He let me have a little more air. "I thought you were terrorists, I promise. I was just trying to protect the homeland. Hell, you should understand, you were in the Marines."
"Well...Damnit, McFab, you're crazy as a damned bedbug, but I got a soft spot for you. That sculpture you made of the boys on Iwo Jima, planting the flag..."
"You--you liked it?"
"Brought a tear to my eye, boy, and to think you made something that nice with mashed potatoes...Any Marine would have been proud to eat that sculpture, McFab." He let go of my throat and stood up.
"Earl, ain't you gonna shove that toothbrush--"
"I said stay outta this, Irene! Now, one thing, Mr. Randy. You gonna pay for my car."
"Hmmph. His poor ole mama gonna pay."
"Irene..."
"No problem, sir," I said. I stood and brushed myself off. "I just hope you'll accept my apology, soldier to soldier."
"Soldier to wannabe," he said, and we shook.
"Tell ya what, " I said, "I'll call us a tow truck and we'll have you home on that toilet in no time."
"Sounds good," Mr, James said, and sat back down by Mrs. James and the mangled Cadillac.
I opened my cell-phone, stepped a few feet away, and dialed.
"Give me Homeland Security," I whispered.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

Famous and Andy

A watering hole. Last night. 2100 hrs.
It was a rough bar, but I wasn't afraid. I'd seen or read about more action than any of the other men and women in Red Lobster this night, and as usual I was armed to the teeth. Besides carrying my standard weapons load, I was ordering peach daquiris and saving the plastic swords they use to hold the garnish together. Those things can put an eye out, and quick.
I was about to call it a night when a slightly overweight guy in a hawaiian style "bone shirt" sat down on the stool beside me. He nodded at me, appraising me with his icy brown eyes. Something in his look told me he recognized a warrior when he saw one. I nodded back, barely.
"Bourbon and grenadine," he called to the barmaid. "And make it a good one, luv."
I immediately recognized his accent as South London, having listened to my books-on-audio CD of Andy McNab narrating "Wuthering Heights" while I Jazzercised that afternoon.
"Limey, eh?" I asked him. "South London?"
"Spot on, mate," he grinned. "Of course, I've traveled a bit, I have. Probably sound a bit of everything, yeah?"
"Been around a bit myself," I said, indicating my Soldier of Fortune tee shirt.
"Merc, then, yeah? Brit army meself."
"Four-fifty," the bartender said, sitting the man's drink in front of him. "And you can't run a tab anymore," she added.
"Four..." He frowned as he rummaged through his wallet, accidentally letting me have a peek at something I should have suspected was in there anyway. SAS, the card read. Official Identity Card. Below that, the winged dagger and a name...A name I can't reveal.
"Er, I think I'm a bit short," the man said. "Bleedin' Yank money, can't keep track of it...Now where's me platinum Amex?"
"I've gotcha," I said. "And another daquiri for me," I told the bartender. "Not so strong as last time."
"Well, crikey and Big Ben," the man said. "You're a swell bloke." He toasted me when our drinks arrived. "Name's Andy," he said. "Least, that's what I go by."
Holy shit. It couldn't be. I tried to calm myself, think rationally. Okay, test him. Only way to know for sure.
"So, Andy," I said, as casually as I could. "Ever been to Hereford?"
"Sure, Stirling Lines--oh, cor blimey, I've said too much." He frowned into his empty glass. "That grenadine hits me quick, it does."
"Lemme buy you another," I said, and did. I couldn't believe it. Andy McNab. My hero, hell, my God, right here beside me.
"Your secret's safe with me, McNab," I whispered to him.
"Thanks, mate," he said, sounding very relieved. "IRA's everywhere, you know."
"You bet I do. I exposed an IRA cell operating a mexican restaurant right here in town."
"Doesn't surprise me," he said. "You seem a switched-on bloke. Say, how 'bout another drink for a fellow hard man?"
"No prob, friend." I looked him over more carefully as he drained another bourbon, wanting to absorb every detail. Something about him reminded me...
"Hey," I said. "This is weird. I met Chris Ryan at The Olive Garden a few months ago, and he looked just like you. Even let me buy him a few drinks."
Andy leaned close and whispered to me, "Mate, think about it. Of course we look alike. All SAS men do. Kind of hard to target us as individuals if we all look the same."
Of course. I felt like a dumb-ass for not realizing that, but then again I was two-daquiri drunk and not as sharp as usual.
"Sorry, Andy," I said. "I didn't mean--"
"No worries, mate, buy me a drink and we'll call it even."
I did, and as we talked long into the evening I was pleasantly surprised by his modesty. He acted like he didn't even remember the names of most of his books, and he was much more interested in ordering drinks than bragging about his exploits. Just like Chris Ryan, a class act.
After two hours, two daquiris, and seventeen bourbon-and-grenadines, Andy was ready to leave.
"Sorry to go, mate," he slurred, "but, crikey, I'm pissed. Feel like I'm gonna--" He finished his sentence by puking, or "bulking up" as the limeys call it, all over my lap. He leaned on the bar for support, and I cupped my hands for him as he threw up the shrimp cocktail we'd shared.
"Oh, cor blimey," he said. "Mate, I'm so sorry." He grabbed a corner of my tee shirt and wiped his mouth. "Really, mate, I feel terrible--"
"Stop," I said. "It's an honor to wear your puke, Mr. McNab. " I meant it. I had washed the shirt Chris Ryan barfed on, but Andy's vomit would go into my souvenier chest, right alongside the pair of used skiddies I had purchased on e-bay, the ones Andy wore for two weeks straight in Belize.
"You're a good chap," he said. He stumbled, then righted himself. "You'd have made a fine SAS trooper, mate. Tell ya what--I can't find me bleedin' credit card--lend me twenty quid and I'll send you a Regimental beret and stable belt as soon as I get home to London."
"Hell no," I said. "But I'll give you forty, Sergeant."
He saluted me, money in hand, and staggered out the door. I'm not ashamed to admit, I cried a little as I watched him go.
"What an asshole," the bartender said from behind me. "That's Nigel Hull, the guy who works at the shoe store down the street. He's always bumming drinks off of people."
"That's a shame," I said, turning to leave her my usual ten-percent tip. Poor girl, he had her completely fooled, and I wasn't about to tell her that "Nigel Hull" was in fact the most famous SAS soldier of all time. I gave her a wink as I left.
His secret was safe with me.