HOME | DD

Description
Lieutenant Arn peered from the back of the cargo hold as the air transport flew 20,000 feet over the Amazon. The predawn made it hard to make out much of anything in the black jungle below.

Weathers looked across at him. Concern turned up his eyebrows. “We can’t HALO here, sir. We have to go further up the river. The bush is too thick.”

Ventura glanced over at them from behind a pair of dark shades and a creased cowboy hat. He unfolded his veiny cantaloupe biceps and leaned in. “Scared of a little bush? You some kinda limp-wristed faerie, Weathers?” he asked, through a mouthful of chew.

Weathers showed him a gloved finger. “I would’ve fucked your sister. But I didn’t want your sloppy seconds.”

“Stop it girls. You’re both pretty,” Arn cut in.

“LT,” Weathers replied, straightening up.

Ventura tilted up the brim of his cowboy hat, smoothed back his mullet and then pressed it back on.

Arn looked out the window, admiring the view. Just another extraction. In 16 hours they’d pull chocks, put all this jungle behind them, and be on a bird back to base. He looked at the other two SEALs in the back of the hold. “Bill, Sonny, you boys locked and loaded?”

Bill popped a big pink bubble with his tongue. Smacking his gum, he showed a smile of blinding white teeth against impossibly dark skin. “Good to go, boss.” He massaged his gleaming bald head and then slapped it lightly.

Sonny said nothing, his eyes hard. His face was a mask of stone behind black camouflage makeup. Sonny made Arn nervous. He was one cold sunnuva bitch. After a moment that seemed to last all morning, Sonny finally nodded.

Hell of a crew Arn had put together. He hated to think what would happen if he wasn’t around to keep these animals under control.

Weathers looked at Arn. “I still say we go further up.”

Ventura smiled, dribbling a black line down his chin. “Show a little backbone.”

Bill clucked his gum. “What’s your call, LT?”

Old Arn scratched at the graying stubble on his square chin.

* * *

High in the forest canopy, Bill dangled from his caught parachute. It was a lot darker beneath the canopy than he expected. He could hear the river nearby. Pulling out his GPS, Bill did a quick check. He had landed right on the rendezvous point. Now all he had to do was cut himself down before the others showed up. The last thing he needed was some asinine comment from Ventura. Stowing the GPS, he surveyed the area.

An upside-down sloth stared at him curiously. When the blood started rushing to his head Bill realized he was the one upside-down. He looked up, toward the ground. It wasn’t all that far. His hands patted about his pack, searching for his machete.

Where are you, baby?

His roaming fingers closed around handle and he drew the blade. Two swipes later he was free of the tangle and tumbled down to the jungle floor. The foliage cushioned the fall. Too bad his combat pack was hard as a rock.

The real tragedy was that he’d swallowed his gum. Such a waste of Big League Chew. He stood up, stretching his back, and looked around again. There was a rickety bridge sagging over the shimmering Amazon. It looked like something he’d seen in an Indiana Jones movie. Not thirty feet from the bridge, the river funneled into a narrow falls.

Bill heard something over the whisper of the river. Voices. One of them with a thick southern accent.

Ventura’s hat came into view. Then Weathers. Sonny took up the rear, quiet as death. All he was missing was the cloak and sickle.

Bill started rummaging through his pack for more gum. “Remind me to give LT some shit when he shows up. Weathers was right, that jump was a bitch.”

“Might find that hard, Billy Boy.” Ventura worked the muscles in his jaw.

Bill looked at Weathers. Weathers shook his head.

Old Arn, dead? “How?” Bill asked, stunned.

“Chute caught in some trees. Poor bastard’s spine was practically sticking out his back,” Ventura replied, spitting.

Bill lowered his eyes. “Fuck me...”

“Later.” Ventura wiped his mouth. “We still got a mission. You queers can sit around boohooing and bellyaching, or you can cowboy the fuck up. What’s it gonna be?”

Sonny passed his frosty gaze over the group, stopping on Ventura. His lids drooped coolly. Then he nodded.

Weathers pointed across the river. “The guerilla camp is half a click northwest.”

Ventura smiled. “Good. Then we cross here.”

“Cross? Here?” Weathers asked, eying the swaying bridge suspiciously. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I agree with Weathers,” Bill added. “We find another way across.”

Ventura grabbed the frayed support rope, and stepped out onto the first creaking plank. “You Sallies afraid of a little bridge?”

Bill and Weathers exchanged looks.

Sonny watched, not saying a word.

* * *

Ventura tossed and turned in the river as the Amazon flung him over the falls. He plunged into the water below, and his pack tore free, washing down the river. The current pulled at his clothes, twisted him, tumbled him, and burped him back to the surface. What really pissed him off is that he came up without his hat.

He was the last to crawl to the shore. Fatigues clinging to his body as he sloshed out of the drink. He reckoned maybe that bridge hadn’t been the best idea.

“Watch out!” Weathers yelled, pointing behind him.

A croc shot out of the water, jaws wide, fangs flinging murderous droplets. Ventura stumbled back onto his ass. He fumbled at his vest for something, anything. His hand found a grenade free, pulled the pin, and tossed it underhand… directly into the croc’s mouth. You like pineapples, motherfucker? Its maw snapped shut around the grenade, but the river monster didn’t slow its charge.

“Shit shit shit!” Ventura crabbed backward on all fours. A moment later the croc exploded in a spray of red and green pulp. The blast shook the jungle. Multi-colored birds flapped from trees in all directions. Ventura sat wide-eyed for a moment, then a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and he erupted in laughter. Wait till he told the boys back home how he got that sumbitch.

"Crazy backwoods bastard!” Weathers looked around. “Where’s Bill?”

There was no sign of him.

Weathers threw up his hands. “I told you it was a bad idea, Ventura, you redneck piece of shit!”

“Ain’t my fault Billy Boy couldn’t handle the current! Might be these critters like dark meat.”

In a flash Weathers was in Ventura’s face, knife drawn. “You want to repeat that?”

Sonny stepped between them. His eyes spoke volumes, but his mouth said nothing.

Both of their expressions sagged. But Weathers was not placated. “It’s this inbred asshole’s fault that Bill washed down the river.”

Again, Sonny said nothing. Only louder this time.

“What!?” Weathers asked, angrily.

Then Ventura saw it. They both did. Dust rising from behind the trees. Dust meant vehicles. Vehicles meant men. Likely guerillas from the camp nearby. They’d heard his grenade. “Well, shit.”

Weathers started picking up wet gear. Slinging anything that had straps over his shoulders. “We have to run!”

Ventura snarled at him. “Like hell we do. I say we throw them a welcoming party. Set a few mines. Get a leg up on them.”

Sonny stood between them, impassive.

* * *

Weathers shouldered Ventura through the tall grass. The big man’s leg was a bloody ruin of hamburger and camouflage.

Some genius, Weathers mused, stepping on his own mine.

He set Ventura down behind the cover of a gnarled stump. “Stay put, and don’t do anything stupid.” The muscle-bound hick didn’t have enough wind to reply.

The guerillas would soon be arriving in force. Weathers flashed a quick glance at Sonny. Something like a smile was wringing his painted face. Whatever it was, it scared Weathers. He was just glad they were on the same team.

A moment later Sonny vanished into the tall reeds.

Weathers checked the magazine in his assault rifle, thumbed off the safety, and followed him in.

Two jeeps pulled up at the edge of the field and unloaded surly guerillas in black berets. It wouldn’t be any easier if Weathers was shooting fish in a barrel. He leveled his assault rifle on them and opened up with three quick bursts. Tongues of flame thundered from the end of his rifle and chewed through the men as if they were no more than scarecrows. Puffs of red mist went up, splattering the jeep. Shouting men slid, slumped, toppled, and tripped. Cut down by white hot lead.

A few of them were still stirring. Crawling away. Weathers ducked back into the grass to change mags. But before he could, two more guerillas ran up on him at close range. He leapt to meet them, slamming his rifle butt down on the bridge of the first man’s nose. It crunched back into his skull and the man wilted.

As the second man lunged in with his bayonet, Weathers slipped to the side and chopped him in the throat. The guerilla crumpled, clutching his concave windpipe, bloody spittle running from his mouth.

Another guerilla cut through the field in front of Weathers, pistol in hand. Starring down the barrel of his enemy’s gun, Weathers froze. But Sonny emerged from the reeds behind the man as suddenly as if he’d opened a door. A serrated combat knife jigged the guerilla once, twice, thrice in rapid succession. Then Sonny vanished back into the swaying veil of grass. Quick as the wind.

Weathers could hear more vehicles approaching from somewhere within the jungle. One of which sounded remarkably like a helicopter. “Fall back!”

He darted through the field, toward the spot he’d left Ventura. The big man was still there. Though barely conscious. Weathers slapped him lightly on the face. “Tangos inbound. We have to lay low.”

Ventura shook his head. “No good. I’m not just gonna sit here and wait to die.”

“What do you want to do Ventura?” Weathers folded his arms. “Because I’d just love to hear another one of your bright ideas.”

“That jeep…” Ventura’s shoulders sank, his breath slowing. He sucked in a strained breath and then sat up straight. “We can take it and burn rubber before any more spics show up.”

Weathers shook his head. “We can’t risk giving up our position.”

“Sure as hell can’t stay here,” Ventura replied, wincing.

Sonny glowered at the both of them.

* * *

Sonny turned the wheel, but it was no use. Not when they were cork-screwing through the air. Time seemed to slow as the jeep slammed sideways into the ground and leapt back up with the sound of crunching metal. His eyes bulged as his seatbelt tugged at his chest. Particles of glass floated around him. It seemed as if he could just reach out and pluck them from the air.

Sonny could see the helicopter in the shattered rear view mirror. It hung motionless. Its rotor blades woof woof woofing around slowly. So much for taking the road.

In a flash, things sped back up. The clasp of his seatbelt snapped and Sonny was launched from the rolling jeep. He skidded along the jungle floor. Grass and reeds tore at his skin, lashed his arms and legs. He didn’t come to a halt until his back slammed into a fallen log, tearing the wind from his stomach.

Eyes blurry, he focused his vision on the road. A small band of machinegun-toting guerillas were already investigating the smoking wreckage. There was plenty of evidence that Weathers and Ventura hadn’t made it. It was spread all across the gravel.

Finally, there was no one to bicker. No one to fill the blessed silence with useless chatter.

The way Sonny figured it, he only had two choices. Continue on with the mission alone, or radio in and wait for backup.

Funny no one had ever asked him what he thought before. He pondered for a moment. Then he realized there was an obvious way to make his decision.

What would Ventura do in this situation?

Description
Lieutenant Arn peered from the back of the cargo hold as the air transport flew 20,000 feet over the Amazon. The predawn made it hard to make out much of anything in the black jungle below.

Weathers looked across at him. Concern turned up his eyebrows. “We can’t HALO here, sir. We have to go further up the river. The bush is too thick.”

Ventura glanced over at them from behind a pair of dark shades and a creased cowboy hat. He unfolded his veiny cantaloupe biceps and leaned in. “Scared of a little bush? You some kinda limp-wristed faerie, Weathers?” he asked, through a mouthful of chew.

Weathers showed him a gloved finger. “I would’ve fucked your sister. But I didn’t want your sloppy seconds.”

“Stop it girls. You’re both pretty,” Arn cut in.

“LT,” Weathers replied, straightening up.

Ventura tilted up the brim of his cowboy hat, smoothed back his mullet and then pressed it back on.

Arn looked out the window, admiring the view. Just another extraction. In 16 hours they’d pull chocks, put all this jungle behind them, and be on a bird back to base. He looked at the other two SEALs in the back of the hold. “Bill, Sonny, you boys locked and loaded?”

Bill popped a big pink bubble with his tongue. Smacking his gum, he showed a smile of blinding white teeth against impossibly dark skin. “Good to go, boss.” He massaged his gleaming bald head and then slapped it lightly.

Sonny said nothing, his eyes hard. His face was a mask of stone behind black camouflage makeup. Sonny made Arn nervous. He was one cold sunnuva bitch. After a moment that seemed to last all morning, Sonny finally nodded.

Hell of a crew Arn had put together. He hated to think what would happen if he wasn’t around to keep these animals under control.

Weathers looked at Arn. “I still say we go further up.”

Ventura smiled, dribbling a black line down his chin. “Show a little backbone.”

Bill clucked his gum. “What’s your call, LT?”

Old Arn scratched at the graying stubble on his square chin.

* * *

High in the forest canopy, Bill dangled from his caught parachute. It was a lot darker beneath the canopy than he expected. He could hear the river nearby. Pulling out his GPS, Bill did a quick check. He had landed right on the rendezvous point. Now all he had to do was cut himself down before the others showed up. The last thing he needed was some asinine comment from Ventura. Stowing the GPS, he surveyed the area.

An upside-down sloth stared at him curiously. When the blood started rushing to his head Bill realized he was the one upside-down. He looked up, toward the ground. It wasn’t all that far. His hands patted about his pack, searching for his machete.

Where are you, baby?

His roaming fingers closed around handle and he drew the blade. Two swipes later he was free of the tangle and tumbled down to the jungle floor. The foliage cushioned the fall. Too bad his combat pack was hard as a rock.

The real tragedy was that he’d swallowed his gum. Such a waste of Big League Chew. He stood up, stretching his back, and looked around again. There was a rickety bridge sagging over the shimmering Amazon. It looked like something he’d seen in an Indiana Jones movie. Not thirty feet from the bridge, the river funneled into a narrow falls.

Bill heard something over the whisper of the river. Voices. One of them with a thick southern accent.

Ventura’s hat came into view. Then Weathers. Sonny took up the rear, quiet as death. All he was missing was the cloak and sickle.

Bill started rummaging through his pack for more gum. “Remind me to give LT some shit when he shows up. Weathers was right, that jump was a bitch.”

“Might find that hard, Billy Boy.” Ventura worked the muscles in his jaw.

Bill looked at Weathers. Weathers shook his head.

Old Arn, dead? “How?” Bill asked, stunned.

“Chute caught in some trees. Poor bastard’s spine was practically sticking out his back,” Ventura replied, spitting.

Bill lowered his eyes. “Fuck me...”

“Later.” Ventura wiped his mouth. “We still got a mission. You queers can sit around boohooing and bellyaching, or you can cowboy the fuck up. What’s it gonna be?”

Sonny passed his frosty gaze over the group, stopping on Ventura. His lids drooped coolly. Then he nodded.

Weathers pointed across the river. “The guerilla camp is half a click northwest.”

Ventura smiled. “Good. Then we cross here.”

“Cross? Here?” Weathers asked, eying the swaying bridge suspiciously. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I agree with Weathers,” Bill added. “We find another way across.”

Ventura grabbed the frayed support rope, and stepped out onto the first creaking plank. “You Sallies afraid of a little bridge?”

Bill and Weathers exchanged looks.

Sonny watched, not saying a word.

* * *

Ventura tossed and turned in the river as the Amazon flung him over the falls. He plunged into the water below, and his pack tore free, washing down the river. The current pulled at his clothes, twisted him, tumbled him, and burped him back to the surface. What really pissed him off is that he came up without his hat.

He was the last to crawl to the shore. Fatigues clinging to his body as he sloshed out of the drink. He reckoned maybe that bridge hadn’t been the best idea.

“Watch out!” Weathers yelled, pointing behind him.

A croc shot out of the water, jaws wide, fangs flinging murderous droplets. Ventura stumbled back onto his ass. He fumbled at his vest for something, anything. His hand found a grenade free, pulled the pin, and tossed it underhand… directly into the croc’s mouth. You like pineapples, motherfucker? Its maw snapped shut around the grenade, but the river monster didn’t slow its charge.

“Shit shit shit!” Ventura crabbed backward on all fours. A moment later the croc exploded in a spray of red and green pulp. The blast shook the jungle. Multi-colored birds flapped from trees in all directions. Ventura sat wide-eyed for a moment, then a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and he erupted in laughter. Wait till he told the boys back home how he got that sumbitch.

"Crazy backwoods bastard!” Weathers looked around. “Where’s Bill?”

There was no sign of him.

Weathers threw up his hands. “I told you it was a bad idea, Ventura, you redneck piece of shit!”

“Ain’t my fault Billy Boy couldn’t handle the current! Might be these critters like dark meat.”

In a flash Weathers was in Ventura’s face, knife drawn. “You want to repeat that?”

Sonny stepped between them. His eyes spoke volumes, but his mouth said nothing.

Both of their expressions sagged. But Weathers was not placated. “It’s this inbred asshole’s fault that Bill washed down the river.”

Again, Sonny said nothing. Only louder this time.

“What!?” Weathers asked, angrily.

Then Ventura saw it. They both did. Dust rising from behind the trees. Dust meant vehicles. Vehicles meant men. Likely guerillas from the camp nearby. They’d heard his grenade. “Well, shit.”

Weathers started picking up wet gear. Slinging anything that had straps over his shoulders. “We have to run!”

Ventura snarled at him. “Like hell we do. I say we throw them a welcoming party. Set a few mines. Get a leg up on them.”

Sonny stood between them, impassive.

* * *

Weathers shouldered Ventura through the tall grass. The big man’s leg was a bloody ruin of hamburger and camouflage.

Some genius, Weathers mused, stepping on his own mine.

He set Ventura down behind the cover of a gnarled stump. “Stay put, and don’t do anything stupid.” The muscle-bound hick didn’t have enough wind to reply.

The guerillas would soon be arriving in force. Weathers flashed a quick glance at Sonny. Something like a smile was wringing his painted face. Whatever it was, it scared Weathers. He was just glad they were on the same team.

A moment later Sonny vanished into the tall reeds.

Weathers checked the magazine in his assault rifle, thumbed off the safety, and followed him in.

Two jeeps pulled up at the edge of the field and unloaded surly guerillas in black berets. It wouldn’t be any easier if Weathers was shooting fish in a barrel. He leveled his assault rifle on them and opened up with three quick bursts. Tongues of flame thundered from the end of his rifle and chewed through the men as if they were no more than scarecrows. Puffs of red mist went up, splattering the jeep. Shouting men slid, slumped, toppled, and tripped. Cut down by white hot lead.

A few of them were still stirring. Crawling away. Weathers ducked back into the grass to change mags. But before he could, two more guerillas ran up on him at close range. He leapt to meet them, slamming his rifle butt down on the bridge of the first man’s nose. It crunched back into his skull and the man wilted.

As the second man lunged in with his bayonet, Weathers slipped to the side and chopped him in the throat. The guerilla crumpled, clutching his concave windpipe, bloody spittle running from his mouth.

Another guerilla cut through the field in front of Weathers, pistol in hand. Starring down the barrel of his enemy’s gun, Weathers froze. But Sonny emerged from the reeds behind the man as suddenly as if he’d opened a door. A serrated combat knife jigged the guerilla once, twice, thrice in rapid succession. Then Sonny vanished back into the swaying veil of grass. Quick as the wind.

Weathers could hear more vehicles approaching from somewhere within the jungle. One of which sounded remarkably like a helicopter. “Fall back!”

He darted through the field, toward the spot he’d left Ventura. The big man was still there. Though barely conscious. Weathers slapped him lightly on the face. “Tangos inbound. We have to lay low.”

Ventura shook his head. “No good. I’m not just gonna sit here and wait to die.”

“What do you want to do Ventura?” Weathers folded his arms. “Because I’d just love to hear another one of your bright ideas.”

“That jeep…” Ventura’s shoulders sank, his breath slowing. He sucked in a strained breath and then sat up straight. “We can take it and burn rubber before any more spics show up.”

Weathers shook his head. “We can’t risk giving up our position.”

“Sure as hell can’t stay here,” Ventura replied, wincing.

Sonny glowered at the both of them.

* * *

Sonny turned the wheel, but it was no use. Not when they were cork-screwing through the air. Time seemed to slow as the jeep slammed sideways into the ground and leapt back up with the sound of crunching metal. His eyes bulged as his seatbelt tugged at his chest. Particles of glass floated around him. It seemed as if he could just reach out and pluck them from the air.

Sonny could see the helicopter in the shattered rear view mirror. It hung motionless. Its rotor blades woof woof woofing around slowly. So much for taking the road.

In a flash, things sped back up. The clasp of his seatbelt snapped and Sonny was launched from the rolling jeep. He skidded along the jungle floor. Grass and reeds tore at his skin, lashed his arms and legs. He didn’t come to a halt until his back slammed into a fallen log, tearing the wind from his stomach.

Eyes blurry, he focused his vision on the road. A small band of machinegun-toting guerillas were already investigating the smoking wreckage. There was plenty of evidence that Weathers and Ventura hadn’t made it. It was spread all across the gravel.

Finally, there was no one to bicker. No one to fill the blessed silence with useless chatter.

The way Sonny figured it, he only had two choices. Continue on with the mission alone, or radio in and wait for backup.

Funny no one had ever asked him what he thought before. He pondered for a moment. Then he realized there was an obvious way to make his decision.

What would Ventura do in this situation?