Brady Carmichael and the Poodle of Mass Destruction - The Kachina Shaman, Page 4

  This season, embroidered flowers and a sixties look were back in style and she had dressed up her gear in a flowerchild, retro-hippie feel. She had sewn a faded denim cover over a bulletproof panel undersuit. Then she had flared out the legs to give the suit bell-bottoms around her paws and extra storage for various weapons. After that she embroidered pink, yellow and blue flowers around the neck and legs. Finally, she bedazzled “Fifi” on the back pockets – one “Fi” on each butt cheek. Her tail poked out in-between each syllable.

  “Not bad,” she said observing herself in a small mirror.

  “Nice outfit Feef. Ready?” Brady asked as he stuffed a couple of extra stun grenades into his shirt pockets.

  “All set.” Fifi said with a glint in her eye.

  “Computer, take us to the designated landing zone, 200 yards southwest of the compound. Silent landing, full stealth.”

  Number Eight flew silently over the ridges, passing low over the boulders and scrub brush typical of the mountain desert in northern New Mexico.

  It touched down gently, raising a small cloud of dust and loose scrub. The side hatch opened and a tiny, fast moving shape leapt out - moving as if it were the shadow of some bird of prey.

  Fifi was in full mission mode – she was the shadow, one with the landscape. Sprinting out from Number Eight, she took a defensive position behind a cluster of large boulders that had a good view of the compound. Brady followed, not as fast as Fifi, but with a fluidity and grace that is only developed by years of training and disciplined martial arts practice.

  A ten-foot tall fence topped with barbed wire encircled the compound. It gave off a persistent hum and crackled occasionally, smelling of ozone. Warning signs with lightening bolts stating “High Voltage – Do Not Touch” appeared every 30 feet or so.

  Inside the fence there were three buildings. A large four-story warehouse style building sat in the middle. It looked out of place in the desert mountain landscape. Nestled on either side were two residential buildings styled like military barracks, flat and wide, one story each.

  Looking off to the right the moonlight revealed the edges of a rough dirt road leading to a gate with a keypad and small security camera.

  “OK, Fifi, are you ready to execute Plan A?” Brady asked.

  Fifi responded, “Ready.”

  They both looked down at their comlinks. These tiny computers were state of the art control systems that ran the full length of their left forearms (or forepaw in Fifi’s case). They were made of bulletproof touch-screen glass that allowed them to communicate with each other and the central computer, control various smart weapons built into their armor, access mission data, adjust their camouflage, listen to MP3s, and surf YouTube.

  Brady whispered down at the sleek glass shield covering his forearm, “Computer, execute stealth protocol; Klaus von Hindenburg.”

  Their comlinks flashed an acknowledgement and the air shimmered around them. Within seconds, they were transformed.

  Fifi looked much like herself without her fancy fashion armor, with no visible gear or weapons of any sort, just a purple bow in her hair and pink collar with a small doggie bone medallion that said Fifi in scripted letters.

  With Brady the effect was more dramatic, transforming him from sleek, high tech ninja warrior to a blond haired, blue-eyed German tourist - complete with worn green lederhosen, a camera swinging around his neck and a knapsack on his back.

  “OK zere Fifi.” Brady tried on his German accent, trying to whisper. “You look wundabar. How do I look?”

  “You look like you just auditioned for The Sound of Music. Can you sing Dream an Impossible Dream in B flat?” Fifi smirked, “I think you’d be better as that big nun in the movie. Oh do you remember that one scene when Julie Andrews -”

  “Danke schön, mein Leibchen.” Brady cut her off, “That’s ‘thanks a lot honey’ in German.”

  Fifi rolled her eyes.

  They walked up to the gate. On the keypad they saw a red buzzer under the typical grid of numbers.

  Brady buzzed it, really leaning on the buzzer for about 30 seconds. He called out “Gut morning. Anyone zere?”

  Fifi added to the noise by barking in her best annoying spoiled lapdog style. Lights came on all around the compound.

  Dogs started barking in answer, a lot of them. Then they heard roosters joining in, crowing like crazy.

  Brady and Fifi looked at each other in surprise. Brady mouthed to Fifi, “Dogs and chickens?”

  Their attention was pulled back to the gate when a crackling voice answered. “Who is this? It’s four a.m. It better be important.”

  “Ah Allo,” Brady answered. “I am named Klaus von Hindenburg and ve are here on behalf of ze Society for Children Vidout Lederhosen. Did you know that 99.9999% of all children in the world do not have lederhosen to call zere own? Ze Society aims to stop zis terrible problem. Ve are looking to collect, your donation today of two hundred and fifty dollars vill buy a lederhosen for underprivileged lederhosen-less child. Vat do you zay, can we count on you to donate today?”

  “Wait there,” the crackly voice responded, followed by a burst of static and then silence.

  Brady looked at Fifi and gave her a see-I-told-you-so look. Fifi just shook her head. She already knew the speech Brady would give her later about how all criminal masterminds secretly love lederhosen.

  --

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  Five unshaven, dirty looking men in rumpled military fatigues shuffled out of a small door in the front of the warehouse style building. The men slowly walked toward Brady and Fifi. A cool night breeze carried the stink of beer, dirty clothes, and cigarettes wafting from the men. Evidently good personal grooming was not a hiring requirement for the Kachina shaman. As they drew closer, the men spread out, creating a semi-circle about 25 feet around the fence gate. Each of them held rifles casually pointed toward Brady.

  One of the men continued closer, walking up to where Brady and Fifi stood at the gate.

  He looked at them and spit on the ground near their feet. His bottom lip stuck out where he had tucked a huge wad of chewing tobacco. He smiled, showing stained yellow teeth with little pieces of chewing tobacco speckling his lips. He had a wrinkled, blotchy face with uneven grey stubble on his chin and cheeks, short grey hair, and beady eyes. He slowly reached into the breast pocket of his camo coat and pulled out a device that looked like a garage door opener. He pressed the button and the gate clicked, then slowly creaked open.

  “Why you’re simply hilarious.” He said in a slow drawl and spat again on the ground right in front of them, “The boss doesn’t like people pokin’ into his business and comin’ ‘round here uninvited, but since you’re here…” He paused then got an evil glint in his eyes and said, “Why don’t you come on in and we’ll extend some of our special hospitality.”

  “Does this mean zat you will be donating to ze Lederhosen Society?” Brady asked hopefully.