“Like, dude, getting higher here, man.” Ziggy sat on the floor next to the General and pulled his knees up under his chin. “I’m not cool with the water, man. Not cool. Nope, nope, nope.”
“Broken arrow, broken arrow!” the General cried as he looked back over his shoulder and spun the steering wheel as if trying to parallel-park the bus on the far bank. “Did I ever tell you about my great-nephew’s amphibious landing at Normandy in the big war?” he asked Ziggy. “He was piloting a landing craft full of soldiers and was supposed to pull up on Omaha Beach. Unfortunately, he got a little turned around in some bad weather and made landfall due east at Gold Beach, which was occupied by the enemy at the time, and by enemy, I mean the British. He had a few thoughts about engaging them with his machine guns, but thought better of it because Roosevelt was sympathetic to the tea-sippers at the time.” The General yanked hard on the steering wheel, shifted into reverse, and stood on the gas pedal. “For the record, one of FDR’s worst all-time decisions.”
“How’d he get lost, man?” Ziggy asked as he kicked at the rising water.
“The damn current took him. It kept him from landing on Omaha Beach and a certain Medal of Honor. Our family is famous for gallantry, you know.”
“Dude, I need, like, a life vest. Like, where are the life jackets, man?”
“Use the current!” Avery yelled as he jumped from his seat and leaned over the General.
“Like, the current is using us, man. Where’s the lifeboat, dude?” Ziggy implored.
“Sharp bend in the river turning north!” Avery pointed. “Using the current is our only chance. Keep it in reverse and stay as wide as possible. The water on the inside of the bend moves faster than the water on the outside. Stay wide!”
“Whatever you say, city boy.” The General spun the wheel hard to the left and hit the gas. Every few feet the bus would bottom out in the riverbed and grab a brief moment of traction. Fire Team Leader Alpha chewed his fingernails. Private Zulu covered his eyes. Private Tango stripped off his fatigues.
“What the hell are you doing, Private?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked the man sitting next to him in his skivvies.
“Preparing to bail out, Fire Team Leader.”
“Put your dang pants on. You want to get arrested in Mexico buck naked?”
“Are we going to get arrested?”
“No, probably just drown. On second thought, keep your pants off. It’ll be easier to bury you.”
“Hard left rudder!” Avery bellowed. “Full throttle, all back!” The General pushed the pedal to the floorboard as the wheels spun in reverse. The slower current on the southern, Mexican side of the border began to pull the back end of the bus toward the shore. The water level in the bus slowly dropped, but Ziggy continued to search for flotation devices.
“Ropes, dining fly, duct tape…like, why the hell no life preserveRs!” Ziggy screeched at the top of his lungs. The rest of the men on the bus froze. No one, not even Avery, had ever heard the normally timid man raise his voice. Suddenly, the bus stopped with a lurch. The men all looked around. Avery ran toward the back of the bus and peered outside. The back end of the bus was rammed against the sloping bank of the Mexican side of the border.
“Engines, all stop, General.” Avery opened the back door of the bus and jumped out on the bank. He fell on his side when he landed.
“You all right?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked, leaning out the back of the vehicle.
“I did that on purpose in order to break my fall. It’s a technique they teach in the Russian Special Forces.” Avery lay on his back and held his ribs.
“Yeah, whatever…you all right?”
“No.” The men of STRAC-BOM and Ziggy all piled out of the bus while Fire Team Leader Charlie helped Avery to his feet. The militia wandered around the riverbank, pondering their good fortune. General X-Ray planted a small paper American flag in the riverbank. Ziggy climbed for higher ground.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Flying Burrito
El Barquero made his through the streaming crowd of people wearing brightly colored jerseys. The sun was out in this part of Coahuila, and it was hot. People were singing and chanting in the streets around the large complex. Drums and horns played loudly as the soccer fans poured into one of the newest and finest stadiums in Mexico. Police stood guard all around the arena. There had been shootings here before. Recently, one even stopped a match in mid-progress. Barquero made his way to a small stand in the concourse. He stood out of the way and waited. A few minutes later his friend Cesar appeared out of the crowd.
“Walk with me,” Cesar said, slipping back into the flow of people walking to their seats for the game’s kickoff. The two men walked toward the far end of the stadium. They both scanned the crowd as they walked. El Barquero dropped the flyer he was holding and looked back as he picked it up. “Anything?” Cesar asked.
“No.”
“Good, I have men out there. If you can’t see them, no one can.”
Barquero clinched his jaw. “Over here. Follow me,” Barquero hissed. Cesar followed him. They stood next to the wall near a restroom. Fans poured by. Cesar reached up and touched his earpiece.
“We’re good. I’ve got six of my men in the stadium. They don’t see anything.”
“What do you have for me?”
“The Padre, he’s moving a shipment of weapons tomorrow. Your guns, the ones you stole.”
“Where?”
“North of here. Hundred miles or so.”
“Who gave you the information?”
“I know a girl. A stripper. She’s really good, she’s got these fantastic…”
“How’s he moving it?”
“Uh, by truck, a large truck. It’ll be heavily armed. The Padre likes to armor-plate them and builds in firing ports for his security detail.”
“How many men?”
“At least a dozen, maybe more, probably in several vehicles with some men inside the cargo area of the main vehicle. After his cargo ship sank, the Padre’s not taking any chances. By the way, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“What about Carnicero?”
“I don’t know, but I would assume he’ll be there.”
“Prepare for the worst…”
“…and expect it.” Cesar touched his earpiece again. “Okay. We’re still clear,” he said.
“I’ll take care of this,” Barquero said as he scanned the concourse. “Have your men ready. You can take all the credit.”
“Okay, I like all the credit.”
“After I take care of this, I’m done. Can you help me disappear?”
“What?” Cesar asked incredulously. “You don’t want to come around for the holidays?”
“I’m serious,” the intimidating man said as he looked down at his friend.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
Carnicero walked with one of his men outside the stadium. He smoked a cigarette and watched the late-arriving crowd through his dark sunglasses. Cheers lifted through the air as the match began. The home supporters were already singing loudly for their side. The two men watched Cesar and Barquero leave the arena and head off in different directions.
“We can take him, boss. Right now.”
“No, we can’t,” Carnicero said, running his hand through his long hair. “Not yet.”