Bratva's Revenge

Floating silently in the air space above the Gulf of Mexico, flew the untethered "Angel of Death." The aircraft known to inflict deadly firepower on targets in the Afghanistan and Iraq war, and feared by the Taliban. Its array of side-fixed 40 mm Bofons cannons and 25 mm Gatling guns, had the capability of annihilating the enemy, and on more than one occasion, did. Today, it approached its prey, a Bratva chartered speed boat, or Cigarette, called the Dogcatcher. The C-130 soundlessly approached its target, spotting the Cigarette from an operating altitude of 7,000 feet. It descended, closing the gap to ensnare the Bratva boat.
After casting Dorothy Cassell off to the Brotherhood, the Dogcatcher traveled swiftly back toward the Mexican territorial border resort of Cancun. The Bratva thugs believed the Cigarette had ample fuel to reach the Mexican waters, and at sixty knots per hour, had estimated an arrival in three hours’ time. Taking turns at the helm, the thugs were able to rest as they continued homeward bound, encountering only small Gulf swells. For the Cigarette, the transit effortless. Sunset was not far away, and the expected panorama would be a welcome vista.
Suddenly, the three crew members alerted to a dull, frightful sound, of an aircraft approaching overhead. Even the cigarette engines could not muffle the oncoming presence of an AC-130.
“Mire arriba, un avion,” said one of the thugs. “Parece ser un avion militar,” said another.
As the gunship encircled the boat, the Guatemalans grew visibly nervous. The boat’s captain hastened a full-throttle toward the southwest, and the Mexican border. He even tried to zigzag the boat’s course to prevent the plane from accurately targeting it, but in the open Gulf waters, the cigarette was vulnerable for revenge.
“Whose plane is it,” asked one thug.
“There are no markings on the plane,” responded a crew mate. The three grew anxious to learn what the plane meant to them. They quickly surmised it wasn’t going to be a friendly encounter. “Mas rapido,” said the first thug. “Vamonos, este no es bueno.”
“Call Ambassador Cohen and advise him we need help. Tell him we don’t know who these people are, and they look threatening,” demanded the thug at the helm.
“I will,” responded the thug standing next to him.
“Sir, we are locked, loaded and ready to fire on the target upon your order,” the AC-130 gunner advised the aircraft’s captain.
“Standby gunner, I want to make a few more close passes before we initiate “Operation Revenge,” replied the captain.
“Roger that sir, standing by,” replied the gunner. The fixed wing aircraft would not need to use all of its deadly weaponry; the Gatling gun alone would make the encounter stunningly deadly. The Cigarette was a sitting duck.
“Gunner stand by, we will descend down to two hundred feet before commencing fire,” advised the captain. Normally, the modified AC-130 used as a transport plane ferried military equipment, even Presidential vehicles, but the modified air fortress now equipped with fire power that sent chills down the spines of enemies, possessed more than enough destructive power to incinerate the fifty-two foot boat.
Ambassador Cohen picked up his iPhone and answered. “Hola…..hola……hola.” Before the thug could answer, the connection went dead. Ambassador Cohen looked down at his iPhone. “Something happened to the boat,” he thought. He began to shake.
“Gunner, we will do one more pylon turn around the target before commencing warning shots at its bow. If the vessel does not comply then we will make another turn. Then, the option to directly target the vessel will be authorized, standby.”
The gunner knew what to do, and laid down a conventional strafing forward of the Cigarette’s bow. The Cigarette did not comply.
“Gunner, you may commence direct fire at the target,” the captain advised. “Fire at will,” the captain ordered.
“Roger that sir, these are for Dorothy.” The gunner aimed the C-130’s two 25 mm cannons directly at the Cigarette’s helm and fired repetitive bursts, a tease, before the guns decimated the fiberglass hull. The gunner’s reservoir of ammunition would assure its destruction. As the thugs threw up their arms in surrender, the successive rounds were already on their way. Too late. The thugs were obliterated, the Cigarette’s hull fractured.
“Gunner, we will make two additional circles to ensure the target is no longer sea worthy. Standby for the turns,” the captain reported.
The Cigarette had no visible crew; the interior of the vessel appeared decimated as it moved in small concentric rotations. The crew was no longer visible at the helm, in fact, there was no sign of life.
“Take out the remaining threat, gunner,” the captain ordered.
“Roger that sir.”
Several additional strafes were fired upon the sinking Guatemalan boat. The Cigarette took on water and rapidly sank to Gulf’s bottom, in international waters, no longer to be of service to Ambassador Cohen. In seconds, not minutes, the boat was gone, the crew was gone. The generosity of the Gulf waters would determine whether the Guatemalan's bloated bodies would rise to the surface for sea life to feed upon, or be found later and identified.
The Angel of Death ascended to an altitude of twenty-one thousand feet, its port side doors secured by the gunner, and headed north, toward an unknown, unnamed air strip.
“Good job, gunner,” the captain said.
“Thank you, sir.”