Incursion

With a low ceiling of conspiratorial clouds, they sought an easier approach to the Zanzibar Club; but due to the fire still burning, giving full disclosure to any maneuvers, they would work from well behind the fire.

The four vets loaded up, each with an M-16 across their back, Donnie still with the Savage sniper rifle and a bandolier of shells, and all had the more manageable UMP, machine pistol, in hand; tight spaces or many foes required a fast and flexible unloading. All had sidearms in holster, a grenade belt, with smoke and frags, Art with a small duffel of specialty tools... because you never know what you might need. They worked side-by-side as they retreated in a direct line behind the rocks, never losing their anonymous positioning from the building, making it appear they never left the safe haven. Sheriff Coyle and Detective Bunting and the patrolmen were only tasked with the occasional, noticeable exposure, looking around the rock, some obvious presence as the foil for the veterans’ subterfuge.

Once past the halo of light from the dimming fire, they broke apart in twos. Donnie and Art taking the eastward route, Cliff and Johnny the westward. They would revert at an outward arc then back towards the club, coming from the clandestine approach beyond the unnatural light. They had agreed, they would be in place, cozying up to the building’s flanks in 20 minutes. Without radios, they knew they had to work in tandem of time. Cellphones only for a necessary text, otherwise it was silent running. Nothing else could keep them in sync, and their only power… surprise and mutual, timed assault.

As each duo moved, their drab attire being their only means of stealth, it was as good as they could hope. Look enough like the desert, you are a part of the desert. They kept their eyes on the building, looking for the telltale opaque optics bubble that might be seen from the light of night-vision. There was no reason to think the Turks were prepared for nighttime engagement, but the missile launcher encouraged their cautions, these guys were prepared warriors. The vets crouched and trundled along, then lay prone, allowing any movement in the building to give itself away. Then up and cover another 20 or 30 yards bearing down on their site.

Each pair made similar progress; well-trained military men, the discipline was keen and in sync. Another 20 yards, then stillness… nothing… then up with a look to the total surrounds… all clear… and forward. They arrived to the club’s social building, now a warzone bunker. They hugged up against the outer wall, Cliff and Johnny arrived first and early, and stayed below the window sill of the westward windows. The modest light of a smothered moon told Cliff of Art and Donnie’s arrival. Hand signals were useless at this distance, so they would follow the objective: identify the enemy and their vulnerabilities; they would start on opposite ends, working back towards the front window that had birthed all the death and destruction. The marines popped up in the low corners of each window, and gave a cursory glance inward, then dropped low, only to then leer in with greater purpose, examining the interiors. No one in the window, no one in the room. Then back into their crouch, and on to the next window… again, the same… again, a seemingly docile night. Then the next.

The smell of burned oil and flesh, and the weighted silence made the building feel like a fallen and gutted creature. The miscellaneous dead lying in repose, gave a ghastly reality to their unprovoked war. Smoke in a dark ledge above them, reflected a lurid, muted light, creating a greater sense of dread. Only a rattle of wind broke the quiet of death outside The Zanzibar Club.

Donnie and Art came upon the entry colonnade and held their ground behind cover. Two of the sheriff deputies’ corpses leaned in forever repose against two columns like weary sentinels… full of bullet holes. Cliff and Johnny to the west side of the picture window, now a gaping maw, were hugging the side of the building. They stepped around a civilian, and another corpse they knew as Big Sally Burroughs, both inert, unseeing, despite Sally’s eyes being clipped open.

Now near enough to communicate with hand signals, Donnie gave Cliff two-fingers to his eyes, then pointing inward of the interior, and an upward back-of-palm and a shake, along with subtle shake of his head. He could see nothing.

Cliff turned his eyes around the corner, scanning from the opposite angle, seeing the destruction, bullet-holes stitching threads across the walls and furniture splintered, tufts of stuffing popping from the sofa. He could see two boots imposing into the cluttered walkway amid the chaos of the room. Military boots. It had to be one of the Turks. There was nothing else… Cliff gave a hand to his chest, and then pointed inward… “We’re going in.” Both groups knew that any swinging door was a fool’s access, boobytraps a likely and formidable welcoming.

Noiselessly, Cliff lifted his boot over the sill of the gaping window, crystal debris all around. He twisted his boot to get boot to floor quiet, then stepped all the way through, repeating the effort with his left boot to floor, then into a crouch. He would move forward heel to toe towards the hall running to the west from the main room, remaining in silence as Johnny followed. Both men alert to every direction, Cliff down the hall and back through the room now against the far wall. He could see the fallen enemy fully, lying in easy display, with his arms on his chest… a peculiar pose for a man with half a head… “posed” he thought… “boobytrap” was his next.

Johnny, in his crouch, got a nod from Cliff, turned out the window to Donnie and gave them a forward call with his hand. He then took a long step out of the shattered glass, and went heel to toe in an easy, silent step, then another… then a crouch, his back to the counter, exactly where Sheriff Coyle had first hunkered down at the fusillade of bullets and death that were first poured into the room. They had secured the entry, blood was everywhere, appearing as splashes of black ink in the slim, diffuse light.

Donnie and Art followed in a similar manner, each hunkered down, Art near Johnny, Donnie lay prone behind two entry chairs. Cliff signaled to Donnie with a pointed finger, then two fingers to his eyes, then to his head. “You know the place.” Donnie nodded and advanced.

The vets moved in cautious stages, going room to room without firefight or boobytraps as each entry was an open arch from space to space. The only sound was a wisping wind through the destroyed windows, and occasional shifting of soft boot-work. The viewing room, connecting to the billiards room, and leisure areas; the small restaurant and kitchen with one door propped open. They moved cautiously keeping eyes to floors and around entryways, moving slowly. Staying in a crouch, they had covered all rooms including bathrooms finding nothing but a splash of blood in the viewing room and two more corpses, one of the working girls in lingerie… young… dead with an obvious bullet between the eyes. It seemed so incongruent, even to men of war. The other, Donnie recognized as one of the heavies. He spat on the man for what he knew of him.

For the chamber of exotic, titillating pleasure it once was, The Zanzibar Club was now a mausoleum, and the promise of the devil filled in full. Donnie grit his teeth, ready to explode or cry, he held his machine pistol in a passionate, vengeful purpose. He wanted to be pouring lead out in vast and lethal claim. He wanted the firefight! He wanted endless bullets, limitless blood in return for his friends’. He bowed his head to the task. He and Art were approaching a confluence of dining room, the lounge and a merging hallway that would take them to the pool area out back.

Donnie, ahead of the other three found one of the fallen troopers, clearly staged sitting against the door that exited to the pool. He sidled across the hall to Cliff and Johnny, Art shuffling along now that they had cleared the main building.

“Whatcha got?” voices low giving nothing away in what was a building now inhabited by only four ex-military men and a handful of ghosts.

Donnie was pointing at the slain officer. “Move him and you’re dead…” Cliff and Art were nodding. “I’m sure the Turk in the entry too… boobytrapped. Bet your nuts, lose your nuts.”

“You’re the best intel we got, D; what’s your take?”

“Well, Sarge, they’re obviously not here…” Donnie’s head swiveled to a blank wall that would be towards the pool and the suites building… the one where he almost screwed the prostitutes, but instead ran from for his life. He pointed his finger in its general direction. “They’re either over there, or they disappeared.”

“The back building. You know it at all?”

“I know the Roman Room…” the memory was fighting him for emotional space, which he would not allow, “… and I know a little trick about the room. All the rooms, I think, if what I saw is right.”

**********************

Dispatch had just confirmed her request to Las Vegas Metro Police asking for assistance from their elite SWAT, “But they said they were stuck on some issues, but they’d call me back. I’ll let you know asap.” Darlene just disconnected from Carrie for fear she would be screaming at her fully innocent office dispatch. “Fucking jurisdiction!” she muttered.

Sheriff Coyle and her five Pahrump law enforcement officers were it, and all she had left! They got called up to the main building with one secondary declaration, “But don’t touch any of the bodies! They’ll probably blow up!” They didn’t need any more direction on the matter. Sheriff Coyle took to spitting out her tension, like a bitter flagellant, tired of her self-abuse. “Let’s get this thing rollin’!” They broke from the rock in tandem lines, with spacing, showing a necessary seriousness and proficiency. And they were all afraid for their lives, hands trembling.

While armed with lethal weaponry of their own, they were toothpicks and slingshots by comparison to what they had seen blow the SWAT personnel carrier and the rock table all to hell. How do you confront such a lethal force? And the intruders were obviously trained in urban combat. Their small group couldn’t take their chances on a revitalizing force coming into the fray for the Turks, nor could they allow a nighttime escape, by whatever means. While the National Guard coasts in from Carson City or wherever the hell they were working on maneuvers. This small group would have to bring the fight, no matter the odds; and still uncertain to the numbers. But there was no doubting the Turks’ commitment to mayhem and the tools to rain all hell on these regular, boiler-plate worker-bees of law enforcement and a handful of middle-aged ex-military. Even with the Pahrump patrolmen bringing their armory with them, shotguns and AR-15s, and one M-16… it paled against anti-tank missiles. What could be next? But these tough, dusty folk were ready for the war… and a nice rain of bullets would be welcome company to the vets.

After an hour in clearing the social building, the vets laid out their plan, Sheriff Coyle had agreed, with no complaints from her staff. Operation Seize the Night was born. The greatest challenge was staging without being seen, for they were certain the Turks had eyes on the panorama surrounding The Zanzibar Club’s grounds, and quite possibly the desert as well. It would be the most crucial hour of the fight, without a single shot necessarily being fired. Position was paramount, knowledge had to be acquired. Leverage would have to be stolen, or created… by some measure the military men could only guess at.

The sheriff’s people would have to sell the straight-on confrontation to draw the fire, and it would be dangerous – none of them balked. The other players had to be entrenched to be able to respond with their own lethal counter, and as much to understand just what was stacked against them. For how do you fight an enemy you know nothing about? They would certainly know within the next couple hours.

The best news was, the Turks were now with their backs to the desert, so to speak, with nowhere else to maneuver and secure. This was their Alamo. And it might be the veterans’ and Pahrump officials’ as well. A coin-toss might win the rhetorical debate, the munitions would certainly normally prevail in the war. So, spacing was critical. Plenty of gunfire and noise right in their face, flowing like lead blood, they had to execute to the detail, or they didn’t stand a chance. None of them.

But the greatest advantage might have come first with an apology… The sheriff handed the cellphone to Donnie, and he just listened.

The woman was speaking between sobs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Yankovich… I didn’t know what they was plannin’. And I knew what would happen to me if I didn’t help Big Sal…”

Donnie would give Susie 2-cents no relief. Let her fucking suffer. He wanted her to feel the pain.

“Other of our girls disappeared too, Mr. Yankovich… and we know they’re dead… and I was afraid I’d be next… I know that doesn’t fix anything…”

“Save it! I’m not interested in hearing you defend your sickening, money-grubbing murdering of my friends. Why did the sheriff put you on the phone with me? Let’s just get this thing done.”

And what Susie 2-cents told him would be the final point of execution to Operation Seize the Night… if they made it that far.

************************

The text messages came in silent retrieval.

“In place.” came from Cliff and Donnie. The same came from Art and Johnny, “In place.”

The sheriff replied to the messages, “All set here.”

Stillness prevailed in anxious wait. Only wind through the bushes tested the silence. No one dared speak, but for an occasional nervous call of support to her men, “Atta boys… gettin’ our grit up! They made a fuckin’ mistake pickin’ one with the cowboys of Nevada!” Harry reminded their boss, “And one helluva scrapper in its sheriff… Sheriff.” She clicked her tongue, like a giddyap to a horse.

They had lassoed a length of twine around their fallen comrade leaning against the push-door to the pool patio. Darkness still held them like a sinister mother, and no activity meant the Turks were either entrenched in the neighboring building or had vanished into smoke. The certainty that there were enemy eyes scanning the façade of the building where the law now harbored gave them a palpable chill, having never been this close to death. Yet they were surrounded in its mire and smell with the bodies and blood everywhere. And now, they were about to perpetrate an atrocity on the corpse of one of their own. Poor Butch.

Cliff and Donnie were positioned well on the western flank, Johnny and Art on the eastern, again having arced widely to virtually come from the darkness of desert. They were situated near some bramble or yucca clusters, so not to be seen, or expected.

Just before Donnie and Cliff separated, lying in the cooling sand, bats flying in scattered patterns following the sounds of insects, Donnie chuckled, shaking his head in wonder.

Cliff’s whispered voice in return, “What’s funny you mongrel?” He really couldn’t help chuckling at the oddity of it all… best of friends, lying in the desert with a sniper rifle and grenades, ready to lay some savage revenge upon some deserving murderers… and Donnie was chuckling. Cliff had to join in.

“Mark and Lazlo…” more chuckle.

“What about ‘em?”

“That night… we were in playing pool…” bobbing his head in remembrance, “… and these two sweetheart guys, they’re like being real gentle with the girls… hookers, Cliff. Paid sex workers… and our boys were being all gentle… being gentlemen…” his chuckle was soft yet full, memories of his friends. His last memories. Cliff just nodded, not at all surprised.

“Yea, Markie and Padre… I can see it.”

“Really Cliff,” Donnie looked up, near enough that Cliff saw the tears that had ladled down his face, yet he still chuckled, “… they were handing them the pool cues, taking the ladies arms, escorting ‘em like… these tender gestures, like they was impressing their dates…”

“Yea, that’s them… that’s our boys.” He reached over and patted Donnie’s shoulder.

Now Donnie’s head hung low, his chuckle turned fully into a silent sob… head still bobbing but in a different realm of emotion. “Yea, our boys… and I got ‘em killed…” He was racked.

“Hey, man, D, don’t do that to yourself, man. They’re big boys. Fact is you survived just because you were a little more alert, little more savvy… you didn’t do anything but raise some hell… We know who did our people, D! And it sure wasn’t you, brother.”

Donnie remained looking into the sand, nodding in morose agreement, but firm in his conviction, this doesn’t happen if it weren’t for him.

Cliff had to right this thing quick because everyone was set, “Listen, D, you gotta get the balls back up, son! This is happening! And I need my Lance Corporal, man! Bully up, Marine!” He patted him again.

“Oh, I’m good Sarge! Real good. Just heatin’ up some bile, ya know?”

“I know, Marine! Let’s bring a little payback for our boys. Markie and Padre! You all set?”

“Oorah, brother.”

***************************

Darlene had all positions set; Butch lassoed around his upper body, a claymore had been set between the dead officer and the door. The sheriff herself would pull this horrid duty. Detective Bunting would handle the dead Turk, as he was also a certain boobytrap. He was lassoed around those military boots that hung in the walkway. Each of them was hidden with the heavy twine strung around the corners of safety blinds.

There was a brief argument about defusing the boobytrap on Butch when they first talked about the plan, but it ended simply with this description from the munitions experts: “A claymore has about 700 ball bearings, all firing off from a C-4 explosion, and they are flying and particulating at about 300 miles an hour. And you are gonna bet you can reach between the corpse and the claymore and cut the line… that is designed to trigger the munition?” So, Darlene Coyle decided she would apologize to Butch instead, “And we’ll give you a hero’s funeral.”

They were less insecure about putting the dead Turk through the certain rigors of an explosion, eager to send him off with noise and a deserved, audacious mess.

**********************

“For Markie and Laz!”

The text came back, “For Markie and Laz”

Darlene hit her text, “For my 12 too!”

“Every set of boots. We ready?”

“Donnie’s moving out. I’ll give the call.”

One of Darlene’s men poked his head into the window, and again pulled it back, not giving it more than that fraction of a second, because bullets move fast… She quietly advised her people, “Get into positions. Make sure you’re behind something solid.”

The rustling didn’t last long, her people were secure.

Darlene’s heart was slamming like garbage can lids, enough to shake any sense that may have so far survived all this hell. She texted out, “Ready!”

Cliff texted, “Fire in the hole!”

Darlene said, “Sorry, Butch. You’re doin’ your part!” She and her officers gave hearty yanks on the twine, jerking the bodies simultaneously in the separate areas of the building, fracturing the unstable peace that are active munitions, and a loud explosion blasted outward in flame and screaming shrapnel while shattering the glass door, sending Butch’s corpse into pieces, spraying 1/8-inch ball bearings inward at wide angles and lethal speed, shredding furnishings and walls. In a brief delay, the Turk’s body lifted with a powerful blast, a hand grenade, giving less of a pyrotechnics display, but heightening the terror as this was the first trigger, sure to bring more… much, much more.

**********************