“Good man. Now, listen up, boys. I know the hunting has been a little slow lately, but I’ve got a good feeling in my belly that we are going to nail ’em big time on this mission. This could be a major turning point in the war.”
“Sir?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked. “What if we come across Americans instead of Mexicans? After all, it’s tourist season.”
“If tourists are in season, then it’s perfectly legal to shoot them. You have my blessing.” The fire teams of STRAC-BOM glanced nervously out of the corners of their eyes at one another. “Remember your duty, men,” the General continued. “Our calling is a special one. The defense of our homeland and protection of our God-given rights and liberties can be denied by no government, foreign or domestic. Any organization that would attempt to abrogate these freedoms is the enemy. We are the only deterrent to tyranny left in this indifferent country. We can never let fear or doubt cause our conviction to waver, for we are the last line of defense. We are the Bowie knives of freedom, and if he were alive today, I have no doubt that old Jimbo would be the first man down the tunnel. We’ll head out once we’ve rounded up our equipment. Private Zulu!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Grab the shovels and buckets. Private Tango, round up the two-by-fours. Fire Team Leader Alpha, we’ll take your pickup.” The men of STRAC-BOM got up and began to assemble their gear. “God bless, men,” the General said as he saluted his brigade. “And good hunting!”
An hour later, the men of STRAC-BOM approached the site for Operation Gold Miner. They were packed into the open bed of Fire Team Leader Alpha’s pickup truck. General X-Ray rode up front. A scuffed bumper sticker on the back of the pickup read, I’m From Texas, What Country Are You From? The truck approached a small wooden building that stood a few feet from the tall metal border fence.
“Pull up to that shed,” the General said to Fire Team Leader Alpha, who was behind the wheel.
“Yes, sir,” he replied as he brought the vehicle to a dusty halt. The dry wind was blowing hard.
“Dang, General,” Private Tango said as he climbed out of the truck bed. “It’s blowing so much dust the jackrabbits are digging holes six feet in the air.”
“Never mind the wind, Private. It’ll provide some good cover if the border patrol is in this sector. Now, unload the gear, men. We’ve got some digging to do. Fire Teams! Get inside that structure and start taking up the floorboards. We’ll initiate our tunnel entrance inside the building.”
“Why not just start it right over here?” Private Zulu asked. “It’d be a bit closer to the wall.”
“Damn it, Private Zulu,” the General replied. “I swear on the baby Jesus, if I pushed your brain up an ant’s ass, it would rattle around like a BB in a box car. We dig inside because the building will cover our entrance from overhead satellite recon.”
“Good thinking, sir,” the private replied as he unloaded shovels from the truck. Soon, the men had the floorboards pulled up and were starting to excavate the hard, dry dirt. It hadn’t rained in weeks, and the ground was tough as concrete. After the Fire Teams had completed three rotations of digging, the hole was still only a few feet deep.
“Come on, men,” the General implored. “Keep digging. No surrender!” For the next three hours, the hot and sweaty Fire Teams did battle against the dense soil with their spades. For his part, the General, for the inspiration of his troopers, retold historic tales of great military battles and heroic deeds. Some were factually correct — others, not so much. “So when my Uncle Earl sailed out of the port of Galveston on his shrimping boat in July of forty-two, they said he was crazy. And he was crazy, he liked to eat wax candles, but it doesn’t change the fact that he singlehandedly tracked down and netted a German U-boat off the Mississippi delta. And with nothing but a single-shot four-ten and a ball peen hammer, Uncle Earl sent U-166 straight to the bottom, thus avenging the loss of the steam passenger ship, the Robert E. Lee, which the cowardly U-boat had earlier torpedoed and sunk, taking twenty-five brave souls with her,” the General said with his hand over his heart and tears welling in his eyes. “With this valiant act by my family, the threat to the Gulf Coast was eliminated. Men, it was a crucial turning point in the war against the Nazis. Rivaled in significance only by the invasion of Normandy or possibly the Battle of Stalingrad.”
“Hey,” Fire Team Leader Charlie whispered to Fire Team Leader Alpha as he moved another shovelful of dirt to a bucket. “Do you ever get the feeling that the General is about three bubbles off plumb?”
“All the time. Sometimes I wonder just what the hell we’re doing this for, anyway. You’ve got a good job at the filling station. Why’d you join up?”
“Well,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied, “a man’s got to have a hobby, and my golf game sucks. How about you?”
“My wife’s meaner than a one-eared alley cat. I just like getting out of the house.”
“Fair ’nuff.”
“Situation report!” the General bellowed as he stuck his head down the slowly advancing tunnel.
“I think we’re getting close to the border wall,” Fire Team Leader Charlie called back. “We’ve got her braced up with them two-by-fours and floorboards, but the going is pretty slow.”
“We need to expedite this mission, pronto. It’s starting to get dark,” the General said as Private Foxtrot crawled past his feet with another bucket of rubble and dirt. “Private Foxtrot, how’re our explosive supplies?”
“Well, General,” the private said as he handed his pail to Private Zulu, “I reckon I got about a quarter stick of dynamite left, but that’s it. The munitions locker in the HQ was dang near empty.”
“Well, get it down there, Private. We should already be on the other side of the border and chasing down illegal aliens. I expected at least half a dozen prisoners by now.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Private Foxtrot pulled a small stick of explosives with a short fuse attached from his cargo pocket. “Make a hole! Ordnance coming through!” The remaining members of STRAC-BOM filed out of the makeshift tunnel as Private Foxtrot placed the dynamite at the far end of the hole. “Ready to blow, sir, but I need some matches.”
“Who’s got matches?” the General asked. His fire teams looked around at each other, shrugging shoulders. “Lighters?” No response. A weasel-like noise escaped from the General’s lips as his pudgy face began to turn scarlet.
Fire Leader Alpha spoke up. “Sir, my truck’s got a cigarette lighter in the cab. If we can get it in there before it cools off, that might do the trick.”
“Outstanding, Fire Team Leader. That, men, is how we improvise, adapt, and overcome. Who’s the fastest runner?”
“I’m mighty quick,” Private Zulu chimed in. “Momma used to make me chase down them chickens when I was a squirt.”
“Consider yourself volunteered. But be fast. You can’t let the coil get cold.”
“Uh-rah, sir!” Private Zulu said as he ran to the pickup. After a few seconds of heating the lighter up, he sprang out of the truck and bolted back into the shack. Diving into the tunnel, he passed the still-glowing lighter to Private Foxtrot.
“Fire in the hole!” Private Foxtrot yelled as he took the glowing lighter and lit the short fuse. The fuse sputtered and hissed as he scrambled back to the tunnel entrance. “Everybody hit the deck!” The entire brigade huddled together in the shack and waited for the explosion. They waited. They waited some more. Nothing.
“Private Foxtrot, get down there and see what the major malfunction is,” the General ordered. The Private cautiously crept toward the opening of the tunnel. Just as he reached it, a deafening explosion filled the small building. Wood, dust, and dirt filled the shack, blowing down parts of two walls in the process. The men held on to each other in terror as the dust finally settled. Finally, the men began to move.