Bloody Green Ink

By Darryl Matter

A dark, violent story of David Hart's adventures as a helicopter pilot stationed at a paramilitary base in South America. When his friends are killed in an operation gone bad, Hart and his commanding officer are determined to punish the killers--and thwart a demon-inspired general's plan for world domination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Matter
• Release date: Oct 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463308592

Darryl Matter

Hello,I'm an ancient, long-retired college professor who likes to write stories. My educational background is somewhat varied. I first earned a B.S. Degree in Mechanical Engineering with a Management Option. The industrial management and psychology classes interested me in human behavior, and I eventually earned a Ph.D. in Human Development. In addition to writing stories, my interests include reading and stamp collecting.I grew up in a rural Kansas community, and I now live with my wife in a retirement community. I appreciate each of my readers, and I thank you for reading my stories. Furthermore, I encourage each of you to write something of interest to you and then publish it--to share with the world.Being the antique person that I am, the tech-side of publishing doesn't come easily to me and I appreciate the support staff at Smashwords.Again thank you for your interest in my stories.Sincerely,Darryl Matter

Book preview

Chapter 1

General Wolff scowled as he watched the incriminating surveillance video. Those two shall die, he snarled.

Switching off the video, he got to his feet and crossed the room to a table holding a human skull flanked by lighted black candles. As the candles flickered, he murmured an incantation. The military officer in the life-sized painting on the wall behind the skull and flickering candles seemed to glow with his approval of the magic ritual and the general's request.

Moments later, the general turned to his associate, Herr Mankin. Take care of them as soon as possible.

Yes, sir! Tonight they shall die.

Yes. Tonight they shall die. The general turned to Mankin. I thought I could depend on Cornett, but he got greedy.

Herr Mankin shrugged. Cornett's a dead man. And the Americans? What are your wishes?

Kill the bastards.

Done. Tonight. What do you wish that we do with the currency?

The general thought a moment. Let the Americans deliver it as planned. Then kill them. He shrugged his shoulders. The currency will be secure.

Yes, sir. I'll issue the orders immediately.

* * * * *

Blood! Ye-s-s-s! The demon who'd been summoned by the general's ritual screamed his pleasure. Life was cheap, and the spilling of human blood pleased the evil spirit no end.

The demon was, of course, immortal. He'd spent years with the general's forefathers, fostering their lust for blood. Because of those men--and the demon's constant urging--the earth had been soaked with blood. Mortals called that blood bath World War II. And General Wolff was carrying on the tradition.

"Kill them! Kill them!" the demon urged. Yes, indeed. Life was good!

Chapter 2

David Hart began his pre-flight inspection of the Huey by pushing the fuel-drain valve on the underside to make sure there was no water in the fuel. Continuing his inspection, he made certain the tail rotor was free, then climbed onto the top of the helicopter and inspected the main rotor, transmission mounts, and the control mechanism.

Given the conscientious mechanics who maintained the Huey and the rest of the aircraft, he didn't expect to find any problems. Still, as pilot, it was his job to be absolutely certain the helicopter was ready to fly before each mission. Only when he was satisfied that the entire rotor mechanism was okay, did he climb down from the top of the chopper and into the pilot's seat.

The Huey he'd be flying that night was a variant of the ones with which he was most familiar. This one had been especially equipted for covert night-operations. Whereas the typical Huey makes a recognizable WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP in-flight sound because of its relataively wide, two-bladed rotor, this helicopter was fitted with a smaller, multi-blade rotor that spins faster than the typical two-bladed rotor and makes the rotor almost silent in operation.

In addition to the rotor change, this Huey was outfitted with a more powerful engine complete with efficient silencers, devices again designed for near-silent covert operations. To further prevent the helicopter from being detected on night missions, it was painted grey-black to make it nearly invisible in the night sky. Oversized fuel tanks gave the Huey extended range. They would need that extra range for tonight's flight.

The helicopter carried no markings. There was no number on the tail or fuselage, nor was there a service designation or insignia. Furthermore, the serial numbers had been removed. No log book or maintenance book was kept in the helicopter. In short, the Huey was practically untraceable. If it crashed or was shot down, nobody could tell with absolute certainty exactly where it came from.

Not only was the Huey untraceable, the men who would be flying in that helicopter were virtually invisible as well. Fingerprint records had been removed from all their files except for one secure file in the Pentagon. Photographs in their files had been altered to make positive identification extremely difficult. They carried no dog tags or papers or personal effects that would readily identify them if they were shot down and killed or captured.

The Huey was equipped with instrumentation that made it capable of flying in total darkness and just above the ground if the mission so required. Tonight's mission would make use of both of these strategic capabilities.

It was almost dusk when Hart settled into the pilot's seat and waited for further instructions before completing his preflight inspection. While he waited, he reviewed the preflight information he'd received, then scanned the area around the secret paramilitary base where he was stationed. Before long, he detected the hint of dust rising in the distance far to the east. A vehicle was approaching on the only road leading into the base.

While he waited, Hart checked the .45 Colt lightweight pistol that he carried in a shoulder holster, checked and double-checked to be sure it was fully loaded, cocked, and locked. He also checked the extra clips to be certain they were secure in their pouch. In his business, you never knew when you'd run into trouble. That Colt had seen him through some risky times in his covert operations career.

Steve Miller, the man in charge of tonight's mission, came out of a tent just then, and strode briskly to the copilot's door of the helicopter. His face was grim. He'd never been known to smile. Ready, David? he asked, his voice little above a husky whisper.

Ready, sir. Just give the word.

Miller was a tall, thin man, probably in his late thirties, with crewcut blonde hair. That night he was wearing Woodland Camouflage fatigues and had streaks of green and brown across his face. He carried a .45 Colt in a belt-holster and a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun with a 30-round magazine slung on his shoulder. He placed the MP5 and a small leather bag on the floor of the copilot's side, then walked away, his eyes focused on the dust rising in the distance. He, too, was waiting.

The vehicle kicking up dust soon emerged to Hart's view. When it hesitated at a checkpoint some distance away, he could see that it appeared to be an old, beat-up, Toyota van. As the vehicle drew closer, however, he saw the oversized tires, and heard the exhaust rumble of a powerful engine.

This wasn't the beat-up Toyota van it appeared to be. No way. The Toyota's beat-up body concealed a high-performance engine and running gear. It was the kind of vehicle some covert-operations people love to drive although Hart wasn't sure anybody who really cared would be fooled into thinking it was the old junker it appeared to be. Then again, mabe someone would be fooled. It wasn't for him to question what the covert-operations people drove.

As the Toyota came closer and slowed, Miller motioned for the driver to back it up to the helicopter's cargo door. When the van came to a halt, two men, one Hart knew by name and one he knew only by his handle, Tex, came from another tent and joined Miller at the rear of the van.

The first man, the one Hart knew by name, was Kevin Tracy. He was one of the professional soldiers sometimes called knuckle draggers, a paramilitary covert-action man who looked the part--a rugged no-nonsense kind of guy who'd served with United States Special Forces in half a dozen trouble spots around the world.

Like Miller, Tracy was dressed in Woodland Camouflage fatigues and had streaks of green and brown across his face. He was carrying an M-16 assault rifle with a 30-round magazine and was draped in bandoleers carrying extra clips for his gun. He also was carrying a Sure-Fire Combat Flashlight on his belt.

There were many stories told about Kevin Tracy. One involved a time when he was stationed as an advisor to a military unit in a country that must go unnamed for security reasons. While there he got into an argument with his CIA superiors back in the United States over the number of confirmed kills he was reporting. Bottom line was that Tracy's superiors thought he was inflating his unit's kill reports in order to enhance his own record.

Not one to take such criticism lying down, Tracy ordered his men to bring back the right ear of every man they killed over the next week. After that week went by, Tracy wrapped those severed ears and sent them in a sealed briefcase by way of courier back to CIA Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Packed in with those ears was the terse note Count them yourself.

Tracy later learned that the officer who opened that briefcase nearly freaked out, and that was the last time anyone questioned Kevin Tracy's reports. Everybody who knew Tracy had a good laugh over that little episode!

The other man Hart knew only by his handle, Tex. He'd adopted that nickname years ago when he was in command of a band of foreign mercenaries. It was a part of his shadow-identity, and nobody other than his commanding officer knew him by any other name. That's the way Tex wanted it.

From the looks of things, Tex wouldn't be flying in the helicopter that night. He was wearing khaki fatigues instead of camouflage gear and, unlike Miller and Tracy, didn't appear to be armed except for the ever-present Colt on his hip.

As Hart watched from the pilot's seat, Miller opened the back door of the Toyota van. The van's cargo area was filled to the max with large wooden crates.

Tracy and Tex hoisted the first wooden crate from the van by the handles on each end and carried it directly to the helicopter. To judge from the way the men carried the crate, it didn't appear to be especially heavy. It was large enough to be awkward, however, certainly nothing one man could easily carry by himself.

As soon as the men had shoved that first crate through the helicopter's door, they returned to the rear of the van where three similar crates waited. Minutes later, all four of the crates were loaded into the helicopter. If all went according to plan, they would exchange those crates for a person's freedom later that night and bring that person back to the safety of their home base.

Hart wasn't told who the person was. It wasn't necessary that he know who he or she was or his or her name, and the less he knew about those things, the better. His job was to fly the Huey, take Miller, Tracy, and the crates in, and bring both men and the mystery-person out, nothing more or less. Hart liked it that way.

Once the crates were tied down in the helicopter's cargo area, Miller strode to the driver's door of the van and handed a large manila envelope to the driver. Hart had not yet seen the driver of the Toyota, but when Miller finished his transaction and the van started to pull away, he saw a young woman in the driver's seat.

The woman had long, light brown hair and a fair complexion. As she swung the Toyota around, she turned toward Hart, and he saw her face. Their eyes met, but only for an instant. Hart didn't recognize her, had never to his knowledge seen her before, but his guess was that she was an American. Wow! A very attractive American woman was driving that van! That was especially interesting to him because he hadn't seen many American women involved in covert ops.

There simply weren't many women in David Hart's life. Sometimes he wished he had a girlfriend. He wished he could have met the pretty woman in the van. Maybe he'd see her again. Tonight, his job was to fly the Huey.

Tex gave them a thumbs-up and went back to his tent. His work was finished. While Tracy climbed into the back of the helicopter beside the wooden crates, Miller pulled himself into the copilot's seat. Once he was seated and strapped in, Hart handed him a flight helmet. He put it on and then produced his night-vision scope from the bag he'd placed on the floor.

Miller also produced a map and a mini-flashlight with red and green lenses from the bag. He studied the map for a few moments, then handed it to Hart. He'd marked in red ink the route they'd fly that night.

I'll give you specific directions as we near our landing site, Miller informed Hart.

Yes, sir.

Hart studied the route marked on the map for a few moments, then handed the map back to Miller. The sun had already set. It was a moonless night, and it already was getting dark, an ideal night for a covert mission.

Hart was strapped into the high-backed, armored pilot's seat, ready to complete his preflight check and start the Huey's engine. He looked over at Miller to get confirmation that the team was ready. Miller nodded. Let's go.

The pre-flight check over, Hart pressed the starter switch. The starter motor whined, and the turbine began to sing. As the rotors above their heads began to turn, Hart scanned the gauges. Everything checked out. The Huey was ready.

While Hart waited momentarily for the exhaust-gas temperature gauge to settle into the green, Miller gave him flight directions. Seconds later, they were airborne.

Hart followed Miller's verbal directions. He kept the Huey low to avoid radar detection. There were no lights, not even a lighted farmhouse, to be seen below, indicating they were over a remote rural area.

Almost two hours later, Hart saw a faint glow in the far distance to the southeast. It had to be a large city, perhaps eighty or more miles away. It would be Brasilia, the capital city of Brazil.

Miller instructed Hart to take the helicopter down even lower. He did so, and leveled off about three hundred feet above the ground. Miller was looking out the window now, searching the area through his night-vision scope.

Exactly what are we looking for? Hart asked.

It's an ancient stone building, a big one. Used to be a prison of some sort, Miller replied. We should be right over it in another four or five minutes. Take us on down a little more.

Hart scanned the instruments, eased the helicopter down to two hundred feet, and then turned to look for a big stone building through the side window.

There it is. Straight ahead and to our right, Miller said.

Hart banked the helicopter to the right, and saw the stone building standing like some monstrous medieval fortress in the dark wilderness plain below. It appeared to be two stories tall and perhaps three hundred feet long by one hundred feet wide, maybe slightly larger. A wing, perhaps one hundred feet in length and one hundred feet in width had been added on one end as an extension to the main structure.

Through the night-vision goggles, Hart could make out massive steel bars on the narrow windows. Prison bars. It appeared that much of the window glass had been broken out. Aside from that, the old building appeared to be in surprisingly good repair.

Beyond the large structure was a smaller, single-story building, perhaps fifty feet long by thirty feet wide. Blocks of stone were strewn about on the ground where one corner of the smaller building had partially collapsed into rubble. In contrast to the major structure, the smaller building appeared to be in general disrepair.

Miller's voice again came over the radio: There's a large clearing near the northwest corner of the main building where we can land. Get as close to that corner of the building as you can.

Yes, sir.

Hart scanned the area immediately to the northwest of the old stone building through night-vision goggles. The clearing Miller indicated looked like a perfect landing place, and he eased the helicopter down as close to that corner of the building as he could, all the while checking for any obstacles that might get in the way of landing. There weren't any obstacles, and he set the Huey down gently. The first part of the mission had been successfully completed.

We'll only be gone a few minutes after we get these crates unloaded. Stay with the chopper, David. Keep the engine running and the rotor blades turning, Miller commanded as he prepared to exit the copilot's seat.

Yes, sir.

Chapter 3

Miller quickly pulled off his flight helmet. He put it and the night-vision scope on the floor, then eased himself out of the copilot's seat and to the ground, the MP5 submachine gun slung over his shoulder. Tracy climbed out of the back of the helicopter, hauling the first of the crates to the cargo doorway as he did so.

The two men grabbed the first crate by the handles. They carried their weapons in their free hands as they moved out from under the revolving rotor blades and lugged the crate toward the corner of the stone building.

Although there was no moon, the stars had emerged. Aided by the bright starlight and the night-vision goggles, Hart could make out what appeared to be a large steel door at that corner of the building, directly across the clearing from where they had landed.

Miller pulled the door open. The two men disappeared inside the doorway, carrying the first crate between them. Although Tracy carried a powerful flashlight, Hart couldn't detect any signs of illumination from inside the old building at all after the men disappeared into the darkness beyond that door.

Using the infrared illumination feature on his night-vision goggles, Hart studied the wilderness around the helicopter from the pilot's seat. Although Miller hadn't indicated he expected any problems, Hart was naturally wary.

It's a Murphy's law of covert operations that if your mission is going extremely well, then watch out--it's an ambush. Hart had seen his share of covert operations go sour, and certainly hoped this one wouldn't.

Hart continued to scan the area for signs of human activity, paying particular attention to each shadowy spot that might provide a hiding place for an enemy. To his relief, he didn't see any movement at any of the windows in the old stone building, nor did he see any movement in the nearby trees or foliage. So far, so good.

Miller and Tracy soon emerged from the doorway of the old stone building and dashed back to the helicopter for the second crate. Moments later, they again disapeared inside that cavernous doorway, carrying the crate between them.

Hart contineously scanned the area for any activity. When he didn't see anything that appeared out of place, he concentrated on the basement windows of the old stone building. This time, he saw a faint arc of blue-white light through one of the tiny basement windows to the left of the steel door. The men must be in the basement, and Tracy must have used his flashlight momentarily. Or was someone else in the basement?

Once again, the two men emerged from that doorway and dashed back to the helicopter for the third crate. They returned a few minutes later for the fourth crate. Hart kept scanning the area, alert for any signs of trouble. So far, the mission seemed to be going smoothly. Too smoothly? In the next few minutes, he'd find that it was.

Just as Miller and Tracy disappeared through that steel door and into the old prison building with the fourth crate, Hart detected movement in the brush to his left and two hundred yards away.

It wasn't a wild animal. It was human movement. Someone was coming his way!

Hart quickly cut the lights on the Huey's instrument panel and focused his night-vision goggles on the spot where he'd seen movement. There it was again. There were at least two humans out there, both men as nearly as could be determined from their movements, although Hart thought for a moment that one might be a woman. They were moving in his direction. No doubt about that.

A quick glance around the entire area assured Hart there was no one else around, at least no one that he could detect. With that assurance, he refocused his attention on the two men he'd seen coming his way.

The men were keeping a low profile and darting from one scrub tree to another as they cautiously advanced toward the corner of the old stone building where Miller and Tracy had disappeared with those four crates. Hart could detect assault rifles, probably AK-47s, in their hands.

Hart had no way of knowing if these men had prearranged a meeting with Miller and Tracy. He immediately radioed the information about the intruders to Miller, and was relieved when he was told that he and Tracy were expecting to meet two men.

Something told Hart he'd better be wary. He'd seen his share of covert operations go sour. Without really thinking about it, he eased the Colt from its shoulder holster.

The approaching men appeared to be professionals at night maneuvers, suggesting to Hart that neither one was the someone they'd be escorting back to their camp. They both were wearing camouflage, and even with his night-vision goggles, he could barely track their movements as they darted from cover to cover, drawing ever nearer to the old stone building.

As Hart watched, his eyes darting from the men he now considered to be intruders to the doorway where Miller and Tracy had disappeared with the crates, Miller emerged from from that doorway. He stood there in the shadows for a long moment, his eyes searching the darkness, the MP5 submachine gun in his hands at the ready. Waiting. Waiting.

There seemed to be no signal from the intruders. This did not bode well.

Miller kept glancing at his wristwatch. He scanned the dark wilderness around them for several minutes as if he were expecting someone to join him. Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, he started to walk swiftly toward the helicopter--and that's when the men hidden in the darkness cut loose with their automatic weapons. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Tracy wasn't in sight yet. He came through that doorway at the corner of the old prison and was pushing the door closed just as the men in the darkness commenced firing. As Miller took the hail of bullets and pitched forward to the ground, Tracy rolled to his left, hit the ground behind a clump of scrub brush, and returned full-auto fire with his M-16. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK CRACK! CRACK!

iiiieeeeee! A scream pierced the night as one of the intruding shooters died in Tracy's hail of bullets. Then Tracy was on his feet and lurching toward the Huey, exchanging bursts of automatic rifle fire with the remaining gunman as he came. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Hart had his pistol aimed in the direction of the second shooter. When he saw him move out from behind a tree to better his aim at Tracy, Hart steadied the Colt, took careful aim, and fired. BAM! BAM! Once! Twice!

yiieeekk! The second shooter yelped and swore as he took the slugs in his shoulder. His rifle fell from his grasp, bounced on the ground, then skittered along in front of him. Tracy saw what was happening, struggled to his feet and unleashed another hail of hot lead at the shooter, dropping him instantly.

Hart yelled for Tracy to cover him, then ran to Miller, got his arm around the man, and dragged him to the helicopter. Miller had taken several body hits and was bleeding, but he was still alive.

After Hart lifted Miller into the back of the Huey, he went looking for Tracy. He'd also taken hits but was able to crawl, and was slowly working his way toward where one of the shooters was lying.

"I'll check this one. You go make sure the other one is