Chapter 4. Operation Blackmask

I finished out my day at 16:30, saddled up and moved out for the beach at Paradesia. I took care of a chore or two on arrival, grabbed a beer, some towels and was heading out the door for the beach when I tripped over a sleeping coon in a live trap on the doorstep.

“I should have known it would come to this,” I thought.” I should have guessed that a beer fog would never deter the Ghost from a mission.” I found the following note tucked under the cage handle:

Classified Memo DOD

Commander Slag,

I am 1st Lieutenant Ringo of the 101st Airborne reporting for duty on operation Blackmask. I await transport and further orders. Contact Corporal Braveheart for assistance. I look forward to serving under your command.

And so it began. I’d feel footsteps on the dock. I’d turn and there would be the Ghost, coon cage and cooler in hand. We’d load up and head to the island. There was Ringo and Rocky and Rambo, Junior, Bruno and Bitmek. Three males and three females. A team balanced for long range survival. A regular Special Forces Operational Deployment Alpha team—a team trained to operate in-country with minimal support and still complete their mission—magnificent!

The Ghost had just arrived with Rambo when I heard the Little Bitches screaming from down the beach as they ran toward our position.

“Hey! Hey you guys! What have you got there?”

The Ghost, with a concerned look says: "Who the hell are they? Are they cool with this?”

“They’re just the little Lulus from down the beach. I think they’ll be cool. They love mammals and I’ve never heard them express love for avians. They’ll pump us for info though. Try to just keep it to: name, rank and serial number.”

The winded Lulus arrive on the dock and take to fawning over our coon. "Oh, isn’t she cute. What’s her name, Slag?”

“Rambo,” I say.

“Well, why is she in a cage?”

“We’re transporting her. She’ll soon be free.”

“To where?”

“To the island where she’ll do battle with the cormorants—the black avian species.”

“Oh my brother shot one of them the other day. He says they’re not from here and bad.”

“Your brother is a good man and a patriot.”

The LB’s eye the Ghost up and down and say: "What’s his name?”

“You can call him Dr. Mengele,” I say.

The Ghost rolls his eyes and speaks: "Well if you’re going to address me by title then you should do the same for Slag. His title is Dr. Himmler.”

“Dr Mengele and Dr. Himmler. Okay that’s what we’ll call you. Hey Dr. Mengele and Himmler, can we come to the island with you? Can we? Can we?”

We both respond with a resounding: "No!”

The girls fall silent but soon effect a kind of coy look and say: "Does the conservation officer know what you’re doing? Do you have his ‘ok’ Dr. Mengele?”

Before the Ghost can respond I intervene: "All right, you girls go home and get your life jackets.” The Lulus are gone in a flash.

“Are you out of your fucking mind Slag?”

“No I’m not. Hurry up and get this skimmer boat launched. Let’s go before they get back. I’ll deal with them threatening little bitches later.”

Rambo was one of our first three aquatic insertions. "Who wouldn’t swim out the open door of a submerged cage?” we reasoned. The answer: Not one of them!

The Ghost was a picture of discipline while plunging the cage into the water and screaming: "Insert, insert, God Damn you!” Then he’s trying to shake the coon out of the cage. "Go! Go! The green light is on! We’re over the drop zone!”

I grab a paddle and start rapping the cage: "Insert, you fucking pansy!”

Rambo gets over her case of pre-mission jitters, releases grip on the cage and inserts. We lose her under the tri-hull of the skimmer boat.

“Where the hell did he go?” We turn to see her climbing up the outboard and returning to the cockpit. We both grab paddles and coax her back into the water. The Ghost provides a strong paddle push toward the beachhead. The birds are on her in a heartbeat, shrieking and dive-bombing as the valiant Rambo makes way to the shore. Rambo hits the beach, double times it over the primary dune and starts a serpentine sprint through the underbrush toward cover in the foundation/basement of the derelict old house.

The birds were thick and screaming just over the primary dune. We figured Rambo was taking heavy fire so we both, paddles in hand, charged the beachhead to provide covering fire for our warrior. Rambo, because of rigor, purity and breadth of training and discipline was long gone. The birds were just caught up in a frenzy as they ripped one of their own dead babies limb from limb. "Sick bastards,” we thought.

We decided that water insertions were not the ticket. We needed a beachhead with an LZ. We motored around the island in search of a suitable landing zone. On a sandy area not 200 feet from the old house we found our spot: Omaha Beach. Our insertions would henceforth be land based.

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

The Ghost was serving with the 39th Air Base Wing at Incirlik Air Base located 250 miles southeast of Ankara in the hinterlands of Turkey on August 16, 1977. He knew nothing of the death of Elvis until he heard the wailing of teary eyed Turks: "Bitmek! Bitmek! Elvis is Bitmek!”

To die, conclude, end, finish, pass, terminate....Elvis is kaput—Bitmek.

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

I can feel a familiar swagger imparted to the sections of the dock as the Ghost approaches sans coon cage.

“No coon?” I say.

“Oh yeah, I got us a coon.”

“Too heavy to carry? A big one?”

“No he’s actually pretty small. I was going to let him go but in the interview he really showed me that he’s got what we’re looking for in a warrior.”

“So where is he?”

“Well I’d like you to meet him Slag. He’s out in the truck.”

We approach the truck, open the topper hatch and tailgate and the Ghost says: "Drag him out to the tailgate and we’ll have a look at him.”

I gingerly reach for the folding cage handle shielded by a four by six inch piece of sheet steel. As I exerted lifting pressure on the cage I felt immediate forceful movement from within. "This coon ain’t sleeping like the rest. ... “

In the time necessary to say the words: one marihuana, I took three successive strikes. Each put a pointy snouted little mouthful of teeth through the cage mesh for a full two inches; well beyond the sheet steel shield and to within nipping distance of my hand. I set him down on the tailgate. I set him down fast. …

His voice, his sound, his warrior’s cry began: an ever increasing frequency and sound intensity growl that started out sounding low and personal like an air activated impact wrench and then rising in pitch and loudness to the point where it exhibited the fury and power of a launch on a missile cruiser. This coon was bad!

“The fucker bit me!”

“No he didn’t.”

“My hand is dripping blood from my knuckle.”

“You hit your hand on my truck capper, you asshole!”

“We’re getting gloves and a wheelbarrow, man,” I say.

More strikes followed as we skidded the cage into the wheelbarrow. The coon burbled that impact wrench growl and from a crouched ready to strike position made unbroken eye contact with me. I pushed him halfway to the dock. I just couldn’t take his stare anymore. I know I was anthropomorphizing but I just couldn’t shake it.

“I can’t take it anymore. You push him for awhile. He’s giving me that look. He’s just telling us that the first thing on his agenda if he ever gets out is to kill us!”

We hauled him to the end of the dock, wrestled him into the boat and decided to take a break in the sun before we motored.

“Yo Ghost, this is a killer-death coon. Have you got a name?”

“Yes I do. Bitmek.”

“Bitmek?”

“Yes Bitmek. Turkish for: die, conclude, end, finish, pass, terminate—kaput! Bitmek is the killer coon of All Time. He killed Elvis! Did you know that Slag?”

“He killed Elvis?”

“It’s a fact. It’s August 1977. Elvis is jacked up on tranqs, suffering insomnia, and pacing the mansion. He sits down on the crapper to read the paper. Bitmek breeches Graceland’s perimeter defenses and charges through the open window of the room where Ginger Alden (Elvis’ new 20 year old girlfriend and Miss Tennessee runner-up) lies sleeping. She screams! Elvis rises from the throne and is instantly stricken with a massive myocardial infarction and that’s it. Elvis is kaput, finished. …terminated.”

“I first heard of it at the air base in Turkey where I was stationed. The Turks were all screaming: "Bitmek, Bitmek Elvis. …Elvis, Bitmek!’ So our killer-death coon of all time shall be called Bitmek!”

“Amen, brother….fucking Elvis killer.”

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

Our buddy G dropped off Bruno (a large and powerful warrior) and the Ghost arrived with Junior. Their insertion was textbook perfect. We landed at Omaha, walked the cages 100 feet down the beach and directly in front of the derelict house. They inserted with authority. Bruno stops and shields Junior from a marauding bird. Bruno stands and swats the hooked beaked gluttonous bastard to the ground. They both continue on to cover. A tingle ran up my spine. I sighed and said: "Coons strike a balance….”

“Well told my man, well told!”

As we stroll back to Omaha carrying our cages, the Ghost spots a small outboard runabout full of people approaching.

“Oh now we’re fucked,” I say. "Look they’re motoring right in. We’re spotted. We’re on the beach with cages. There’s no explaining it. They’ll have to die!” I start forcefully muttering: "Bitmek, Bitmek, Infidels!!”

The Ghost says: "Will you shut up! Just keep walking for the boat. Look, they’re waiting for us in the channel. That gives us some time. Let’s just put these cages under the towels in the boat, launch and motor right out and engage them.”

“So what are we gonna say?!”

“You just leave that to me, Slag. You just drive right up to them and put it in park. I’ll do the talking.”

“I yield the floor to you Dr. Mengele!”

I cut the power to the skimmer boat, glided to arm’s reach of the runabout; the Ghost lays hands on their gunwale and says: "Hi!”

The driver and “dad-looking” member of their crew speaks: "So what are you fellas doing with the cages out on the island?”

The Ghost responds: "Oh we’re just returning some samples for a study we’re conducting. May I present Dr. Himmler to you, and I’m Dr. Mengele. We’re up from Ann Arbor.”

“So what kind of study are you conducting, Dr Mengele?”

“We’re studying the effects of other introduced competition pressures on narrow niche species.”

“And what part do you play in the study Dr. Himmler?”

I know my orders were to remain silent but I was being directly interrogated by the enemy. I’d have to respond. Brilliantly I blathered: "I did my doctoral work in avian species at the university of Juarez,” and I was about to tell them about my Honorary Psycho Doctorate, my Pd. H., my Papa Delta Hotel god damn it, which cost me 500 bucks (a lot of money for 1977 mind you) but the Ghost stopped me before I could get started.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. I fall silent and he says: "Dr. Himmler while at the Universidad de Juarez,” and he’s saying it with an accent and emphasis that makes it sound like an institution that’s both real and credible. "Dr. Himmler, while at the Universidad de Juarez majored in avian infectives. He’s a specialist in H5N1—bird flu. He assures me that while these birds are infected, the virus has yet to mutate into a state of trans-specific transmissivity. That’s why we’re not wearing masks. We are definitely downwind and breathing spoor though.”

The “boat daddy” keys a start on the outboard, says: "Nice talking to you Doctors,” and speeds out of there like he’s running from a hurricane.