“Should I get it, sir?”
“Yes, Private,” the despondent General replied as he unhooked the holster containing his pearl-handled pistols and placed them on his podium. “It’s probably the Mexican Army. They must have wire-tapped our HQ and are no doubt calling to gloat.”
Private Zulu rushed into the General’s office and picked up the phone just before it went to the answering machine. “STRAC-BOM HQ. This is Private Zulu speaking.”
“Zulu, good man,” the voice on the other end of the line replied. “This is one Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin speaking. I’m glad I got you. We were involved in a small business dealing a while back. I’m sure you remember.”
“Hey, man, you never paid me for my dang coyote!” Private Zulu yelled into the phone. “Not to mention you left a dead bandito in the building, minus one melon. I had to spend weeks with the coppers and the shrink-head doctors before they let me out. Said I had some kind of Post Menstrual Traumatic Stress Disorder. I thought I’d never get out of that loony bin. Still having nightmares. Mostly about bloody pumpkins.”
“Never mind, Private. The specimen didn’t prove conclusive, although I still have my doubts. However, fortunately I have a new mission in mind for your organization. Is your commanding officer currently available? It’s rather quite important. Chop, chop, be a good boy.”
“I don’t trust you one bit, you dead wolf thief.”
“Patience, Private. There’s money involved.”
“Money? Hang on a minute.” Zulu put the phone down and thought about it before picking it up again. “Okay, but I still want my dough, you hornswoggler, you. General, it’s for you!” the private yelled.
“Who is it?” the General asked as he entered the office.
“A man calling about a mission, but don’t sign up for anything without getting paid first. This guy is slicker than snot on a glass doorknob. He’s the one that stole my dog from hell.”
“You know the man?” The General took the receiver.
“Well, we’ve howdied, but we haven’t shook.”
“I see.” He lifted the receiver to his ear. “General X-Ray speaking.”
“Are you the commanding officer of this outfit?”
“Yes. Who’s speaking?”
“My name is immaterial.”
“Immaterial? That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard. Are you from New Jersey?”
“For now, just call me Agent 00Zero.”
“What can I do for you, Agent 00Zero? I’m presently in the middle of something.”
“Is your regiment currently available for charter service?”
“Fortunately, we do have a hole in our operational schedule.” The General stood at attention, his demeanor rapidly improving.
“Are you familiar with the current invasion from Mexico?”
“Am I? It’s what STRAC-BOM was founded for.”
“Are you also aware that the United States government is incapable of stopping this invasion alone?”
“Absolutely! They’re as useful as a pocket on the back of a shirt.”
“Interesting concept.” Avery thought about the potential business opportunities. “General, I have reason to believe a major spawning is approaching. A significant gathering that will precede an unprecedented migration across our borders is at hand.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure you understand, my intelligence reports are confidential, but I have aerial recon that confirms it. The information is classified above top secret. All you need to know is that the Yankees are still in first place.”
“You bet your sweet ass we still are! God bless America!”
“Whatever. Now listen to me. We must depart for Mexico at once.”
“You don’t want to fight them on our side of the border?”
“Of course not. The best place to toss a monkey wrench into the gears of an invasion is on enemy soil. They won’t expect us coming.”
“Hot damn, son! You think just like I do. Now, there’s just one thing. Our commission. What sort of budget did you have in mind?”
“Two thousand U.S. dollars. Half now, half on completion of the mission.”
“Well.” The General scratched his pink, bald head. “That rules out air and naval support, not to mention armored columns, but it’s a start. My men can be ready immediately.”
“Speaking of your men, how many units do you command?”
“Three highly trained and battle-hardened Fire Teams. Each team consists of two men: one Fire Team Leader and one Private. Including me, the brigade’s total strength is seven elite and fearless warriors, but under fire, we fight like a hundred and seven.”
“Excellent. Are the men fit and well fed? Have they had their shots lately?”
“We haven’t had lunch yet, but my men can eat barbed wire and crap razor blades.”
“Nice party trick, but not relevant. Have their psych profiles been recently updated? I can’t risk anyone breaking under the pressure of interrogation if captured. Our mission is a dangerous one.”
“I can personally vouch for their mental fitness. Although we might want to keep an eye on Private Zulu.” The General cupped the receiver with his hand. “He’s a little slow on the uptake, not to mention the download, if you know what I mean.”
“Hey,” the perturbed Private Zulu said. “I can hear you. I’ve got feelings, too, you know?”
“Duly noted, General,” Avery replied. “How about undercover experience and language capabilities? We want to keep a low profile among the indigenous population.”
“Fire Team Leader Bravo speaks a little Russian. I had to a keep close watch on him in the early days, as I suspected he might be a Commie infiltrator, but he checked out pretty fine. Was the best man at me and my ex-wife’s wedding.”
“No Spanish?”
“All the boys speak a little Texican, plus a few Spanish swear words, but we do have an authentic, genuine phrase book in our intelligence center. Not exactly an Enigma machine, but it comes in pretty handy.”
“Not ideal, but bring it along anyway. What about transportation?”
“Only our private vehicles are available at the moment, mostly pickups. Our Humvees and helicopters are out being retrofitted with laser-guided rockets and new DVD players,” the General lied. Private Zulu rolled his eyes.
“Well,” Avery said. “Transportation is your problem, General. Acquire something suitable and inconspicuous. Something big enough to hold your men, my associate, and myself. The cost of the vehicle comes out of your end.”
“Hum,” the General muttered as he rubbed his chubby chin. “Okay, I’ll come up with something. You mentioned an associate. Does he have a code name, too?”
“Just call him moron.”
“Roger that.”
“General, how long before you can pick us up in Austin? We don’t have much time to stop this invasion.”
“We’ll expedite our load-out and leave this evening, hopefully by midnight. We’ll rendezvous at your base no later than ten hundred hours tomorrow morning.”
“Very well. Do you have something to write with?”
“Yes.”
“Take down these coordinates.”
“Excellent.” The General scribbled down Avery’s address on the cover of an old issue of Playboy magazine sitting on his desk.
“General, don’t draw attention to yourself or your men. The agents in the black helicopters mean business. They’re probably armed with poison darts, most likely curare. It’s very nasty stuff. If captured, commit suicide. It’s less painful for you, and it covers my tracks. But once we’re across the border, we should be safe.”
“Outstanding, but just one question. What’s the mission name?”
“Name?”
“To be called, or rather, coded. As you mentioned, the landscape is fraught with interlopers and spies. We need a code name. All the best operations have one.”
“How about…?” Avery thought for a moment. “Operation Alpine Condensation?”