Buck must find two college students Ch.16

ENCOMIENDA

Chapter 16

Scotty’s team had arrived in a slate-gray panel truck pulling a matted-black jeep. For that night’s mission, Scotty unhooked the jeep. The jeep had roll bars but no top. Scotty said, “If it’s not armored, what’s the use of a top for these guys? Just restricts range of motion and blocks fields of fire.”


I had dressed in black clothing. Scotty, Patric and Corey were in swamp-camouflaged fatigues. Each man carried a mini walkie-talkie headset, a knife, an automatic, and night goggles.

By the time we arrived at the cutoff road to Beanland’s compound, it was nine thirty. Scotty cut the headlights and drove as silently as he could until he was a quarter mile from the compound. Then he cut the engine and we coasted to a stop. We could see the lights of the compound and hear voices. Parked on the other side of the fence were four old, repainted-green school buses, a white van, and Beanland’s black truck.

Scotty spoke in a whisper. “Patric, Corey, when you have to communicate, keep your voices low. Sound will carry a great distance over these wetlands. Ok, any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Go.”

The two disappeared swiftly, one to the left, one across the road to the right, but they went softly, silently. No splash indicated they had entered the water-filled ditches. No scraping of dirt or rocks indicated they had ascended the banks opposite us and each other. No clatter indicated that they were passing swiftly on the hidden sides of the banks.

Scotty said, “Let’s give them a half hour to get in place.”

I sat silently in the jeep, looking at the compound, hoping for a happy resolution for the sake of Señor Concepción and the two boys. I looked up. The dark, moonless sky was not overcast, just a few clouds passing like shadows in front of the stars, whose myriad number and twinkling brightness always startled me when I left the city for the glades or the ocean. We forget the preciousness of life, the beauty of existence until an evil thing comes to us, like the cloud blocking the light of the stars.

Scotty said, “Patric’s in place. Twenty-six minutes.”

A few minutes later, lights flashed on and off inside the compound – then lights out. The increased ground darkness increased the bright intensity of the stars. I looked up again.

Scotty said, “Corey’s set. Thirty-two minutes.” He handed me his night goggles.

I put them to my eyes and focused toward the camp. A large, illuminated-green humanoid figure was strolling from the cabins toward the dog pens. Other green human glowworms were standing outside the cook’s trailer. They were gesturing at one another.

The large human shape went to the pens, and six dog-shaped glowworms jumped and twirled. The human shape pulled a gate open and two of the barking glowworms lunged out of the fence and ran toward the cabins.

I said, “I think he’s let the Rottweilers out.”

Scotty took the goggles and looked. “Could be. I count a total of four figures. Three men and a woman.”

“Somebody’s got a wife.”

He handed me the goggles. Now I could see the woman – stout and wearing pants. She and a potbellied man waved at the man they had been talking to and went into the cook’s trailer. The cook had a wife. The other figure went to the custodian’s trailer and went inside. Suddenly, the large man, Beanland surely, turned the corner of the doublewide, stopped and seemed to be looking straight at me. I inhaled sharply. Then he turned and went inside the doublewide.

Scotty said, “They should be doing the preliminaries by now.”

We could hear low barks from the north end of the compound. Then those sounds died. Silence.

Silence for ten minutes. Then the penned dogs began barking and howling. Their fierce barks rose in volume.

The door to the doublewide opened and Beanland stepped out. A light came on in his hand. He panned the flashlight east toward the pens. The dogs increased their clamor. Beanland walked to the far end of the pen and flashed his light over the swampy area.

Another flashlight popped on near the second guard trailer. Another large man walked toward Beanland and said something – a question – maybe “What’s up?” Beanland replied, but I couldn’t make out words – maybe “Don’t know.” They both panned their lights across the watery surface of the swamp.

Beanland turned to the pens and made down motions with his hands. He said something to the dogs. The dogs slowly ceased barking. Both flashlights led back to the trailers.

No sooner had the two men entered their trailers than the barking erupted again, this time fiercer and louder as if the dogs themselves were threatened. The two men came out again and walked toward the pens, their flashlights playing back and forth as they walked. Then the first trailer’s door opened and Cocker stepped out, carrying his shotgun. He, too, went toward the pens.

Then the custodian’s door opened and a man stepped out, shorter than the others, but broad-shouldered and sinewy. He carried a battery spotlight, whose light illuminated the pen area and beyond. I could hear questions and muttered replies, but words were hard to make out.

Then the cook’s door opened and he and his wife came out armed; he, with a shotgun, and she, with a pistol. They joined the crew at the pens. The custodian shined his spotlight over the face of the swamp. The dogs kept barking. But the dogs had no words to tell exactly what they had seen and no fingers to give direction.

Beanland waved to the shed closest to the trailers, and he, the first guard and the custodian went there. He unlocked the shed and opened the doors. The men went in and came out carrying rifles of some kind. They returned to the area behind the pens. The spotlight was set down and propped up to illuminate the swamp.

I heard a shout, clearly this time. “Fire!” The shotguns roared, the pistol banged and the rifles chattered – automatic weapons! The dark surface of the swamp shook and shimmered from the multiple splashes. A cordite cloud drifted up from the flashing weapons. The shooters swept their weapons back and forth, spraying into the swamp.

I put my hand on Scotty’s shoulder. He said, “Don’t worry. Patric can handle this.”

The firing died, replaced by whooping and nervous laughter. The dogs had stopped barking. Somebody, I think it was the cook, shouted clearly, “Whatever it was won’t be back for a while!” They laughed some more and went back to their trailers. The automatic weapons were locked in the shed and Beanland walked to the doublewide. His mountainous bulk was the last to disappear into his abode.

End of Chapter 16

Night missions are a prime operation for special ops people.  Below are items related to this blog.