THE EXPENDABLES 1971
STARRING:
John Wayne as Duke Stryker
Clint Eastwood as Will Saxon
Sean Connery as Frank Fisher
Bruce Lee as Han
Steve McQueen as Colt Clay
Richard Roundtree as Max Harper
Featuring:
Chuck Connors as Merrick
Guatemala, September 5th, 1971
It is time to show America how serious I am.
Commander Estrada strode out of his tent and into the clearing. The jungle canopy cut down on the brutal sun. Still the humidity wrapped around his hard, wiry frame and coated him with sweat.
But he was used to it, unlike the spoiled brats kneeling before him. He put his hands on his hips and scowled at them. Two men and a woman. All in their early twenties, all with long hair. Estrada still couldn't get over that. No real man would wear his hair that long.
Hippies, the Yanquis called them. They claimed to fight injustice, to lead a revolution.
Those thoughts made Estrada snort. What did these pieces of filth know about fighting and revolutions? They grew up in fancy homes, had their capitalist parents drive them around in big cars, wore expensive clothes and stuffed their faces with mounds of food. They knew nothing of struggle. They held signs and listened to music while he and the men of the People's Revolutionary Faction fought and died for their beliefs.
Now the Americans would see that the PRF was willing to kill for its beliefs.
"Is the camera ready?"
"Yes, Sir." One of his soldiers, Miranda, nodded.
"Start filming."
Miranda pointed the half-oval shaped Auricon CM-72 at the yanquis. All three were sweaty, filthy and covered in bruises and mosquito bites.
Estrada turned to Miranda and gestured to point the camera's large lens toward him.
"Americans. I have been patient long enough with you. I ask you for six million dollars to spare the lives of these children and what do you do? You negotiate. You plead. You sit on piles of money, yet refuse to give up even a handful to save your own. You prove that greed is more important to you than your own sons and daughters. Your greed is the reason why millions around the world live in squalor."
Estrada leaned closer to the camera. "I have explained what the consequences of failing to meet our demands would be. Did you think that the men of a small, poor country could not seriously challenge the mighty giant that is the United States? Now you will see how serious we are."
He turned to another soldier, Velasquez, and jerked his head toward the yanquis. Velasquez grinned and walked up to Estrada. "Which one?" he asked in a whisper.
"One of the boys. I want to save the girl for last, for obvious reasons." Estrada leered.
A sick smile also formed on Velasquez's face. He walked up to the captives, clutching a long, slender AVS-36 rifle.
"Please," the girl, Cynthia, begged. "Please don't."
"Don't do this, man." The boy with the long black hair, Ron, shivered. "K-Killing isn't the answer."
"We don't like our government, just like you," said the other boy, Paul. "We can work together. We can -"
"Shut up and face your death like a man," barked Estrada. "If you even are a man."
Paul cried. So did Cynthia. So did Ron. Velasquez still grinned, moving the barrel of his rifle from one captive to the other. Their sobbing grew louder. The 20 other PRF soldiers around the camp looked on in amusement.
Estrada thought he heard a muffled pop. Blood and brains shot out the side of Velasquez's head. He crumpled to the ground. Cynthia gawked at the hole in his head and screamed.
Estrada blinked. Had that actually happened? Was Velasquez really dead?
The other PRF soldiers looked around the jungle, rifles sweeping the treeline.
Another pop. A gory red hole replaced Miranda's left eye. He fell to the ground.
Estrada reached for the AK-47 slung over his shoulder.
That's when all hell broke loose.
A tall, rugged man in green fatigues jumped up from behind a bush, Thompson machine gun in hand. The weapon chattered. Four PRF soldiers twisted and fell.
"WAAAAAAA!"
A lean Asian man flew through the air. His foot rammed into the chest of a soldier, knocking him down. Two other PRF soldiers swung toward him, rifles raised.
In a flash, the Asian pulled out two sais and flung them. The blades pierced the hearts of both men.
"AAAAAIIY!" The Asian sent another soldier sprawling with a back kick.
Estrada ran for the communications tent. He threw back the flap. Moreno, the radioman, stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.
"Don't just sit there, you fool! Call for reinforcements!"
Moreno nodded. He turned to the set, which sat on an old folding table.
A guttural chatter cut through the air. A heavy machine gun. Holes burst in the side of the tent. Estrada threw himself on the ground. Rounds tore through the radio set, and through Moreno. He threw his arms over his head and collapsed.
Heart pumping, Estrada crawled to a field radio next to the table. He looked it over. It wasn't damaged. He grabbed the receiver.
"Cobra to Stormfront! Cobra to Stormfront! I have heatstroke. Repeat, I have heatstroke!"
Having given the code that the camp had been overrun, Estrada threw down the receiver and pulled out his machete. He hacked at the rear of the tent. He had to get away. The Revolution couldn't afford to lose a leader like him.
He slapped at the torn canvass and started to go through it when movement caught his attention.
A stocky black man with a cigar clenched between his teeth entered the tent. He wore a bandolier of ammunition and carried an M1919 .30 caliber machine gun. Smoke wafted from its barrel.
"Goin' somewhere, buddy?"
Ice shot up Estrada's spine. He felt his knees tremble.
The black man brought up the machine gun.
Estrada dove through the hole in the tent. He scrambled to his feet and ran into the jungle.
Suddenly a tall man with a round face and dark eyes appeared before him.
"In a hurry, are we?" he said with a British accent.
Estrada gaped at him. He looked over his shoulder to see the black man come out the tent.
Trapped! How could this have happened? He couldn't die here, not before he overthrew the corrupt government and empowered the peasants.
He turned back to the British man. With a primal scream, he brought up the machete and charged him.
Six rounds from a Sten submachine gun ripped apart Estrada's torso. He was dead before he hit the ground.
XXXXX
Duke Stryker surveyed the PRF camp with satisfaction. Not a single pinko rebel was standing. He checked his watch. One minute, five seconds from start to finish. Not bad at all.
"Han, check on the hostages."
The former Hong Kong cop jogged over to the three kids and examined them. "Some bruises and lots of mosquito bites. No signs of malaria. They look fine despite the circumstances they endured."
Duke nodded. Those kids had been extremely lucky. He'd been in enough jungles to know there were dozens of other things that could kill you besides commie slimeballs with guns.
They should've stayed home. Instead, these do-gooders felt the need to come to Guatemala with food and jugs of fresh water for a bunch of poor villagers. And look where it got them. Kidnapped and held for ransom. Maybe this little near-death experience would straighten them out. Maybe they'd go back home and show their parents the respect they deserved.
And maybe those two boys would cut their damn hair!
"Hey, Duke!"
Duke saw Max Harper walking toward him, .30 cal resting on his shoulder. Behind him was Frank Fisher, Sten Gun dangling at his side.
"We may have a problem," said Max. "I shot the shit out of their radio, but they had a field telephone lying on the ground. I think that Estrada asshole got off a message."
"Terrific." Duke frowned. "Frank. Get hold of Colt. Tell him to get his ass to the LZ now."
"Right." Frank reached around his back and grabbed the receiver of his radio/telephone, or R/T. "X-Ray Four, this is X-Ray Two. Ready for pick-up."
"Yeah, about that," replied Colt Clay. "We might have a little problem."
Duke's brow furrowed. He took the receiver from Frank. "What kind of problem?"
"The alternator's acting up. It's not puttin' out enough juice."
"Can you fix it?"
"Of course I can fix it."
"I mean can you fix it in a hurry?" asked Duke.
Colt paused. "Um, sure I can."
That answer didn't inspire a lot of confidence in Duke. "Then stop flappin' your gums and get that chopper in the air. We might have company soon."
"Gotcha."
Duke gave the receiver back to Frank and turned to Han. "Get those hostages untied and get 'em up. We gotta move."
Han took out a knife and cut through the ropes binding the hostages' wrists and ankles.
"Are we ready to go?"
Duke spun around. An unsmiling man with a weathered face stood a foot away. Twigs, leaves and grass were attached to his fatigues.
"Cripes sake, Saxon. How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that?"
Will Saxon didn't respond, just gave him that brooding look of his.
Duke grunted. He probably shouldn't complain too much. Will's ability to sneak around like a cat was probably what made him a top sniper in the Marine Corps.
"To answer your question, yeah. But it looks like Estrada called in more of his commie friends."
"Swell."
Once the hostages were on their feet, they headed into the jungle. Frank had point, while Max covered the rear. Several times they had to hack through the dense foliage with machetes. Duke wished they didn't have to do that. Any half-assed soldier would be able to pick up their trail. But right now, speed was of the essence.
They trekked a mile-and-a-half before they came to a clearing. Before them was a small hill with a dirt road running by it a quarter-mile to the east. Duke gritted his teeth every time he thought about that road. The damn thing led directly to one of three PRF camps in Guatemala's Escuintla region.
And, of course, it had to be their biggest camp.
But Duke needed an LZ as close to the PRF headquarters camp as possible, in case the captives were too injured or exhausted to travel far.
At least we're prepared if we run into trouble.
The group jogged up the hill, the captives keeping up better than Duke expected. Though more than once, Han or Will had to help them along.
When they reached the top, Duke, Frank and Han hurried to a length of green, leafy camouflage netting. They pulled it back to reveal a trench with an earthen berm in front of it they had dug the night before.
"Company's coming," announced Max.
Duke let go of the netting and raised his binoculars. A convoy of two jeeps, two M37 trucks and two old pick-up trucks that looked held together by spit and bailing wire came down the road. He counted roughly thirty PRF soldiers jammed into the vehicles. One of those soldiers stood in the open bed of an M-37, staring through binoculars.
Staring right at him.
"They've spotted us. Everyone in the trench."
The group jumped or slid into the trench.
"Frank. You ready with our little surprise?"
The Brit held up a boxy device. "Just give the word."
Clutching his Thompson, Duke peeked over the top of the berm. The convoy stopped at the base of the hill. PRF troops spilled out of the vehicles, carrying an array of Russian-made weapons, from World War One vintage Mosin-Nagant bolt-action rifles to more modern AK-47 automatic rifles. They made their way up the hill, bunched together in groups of four or five.
"Frank." Duke turned to him.
"Just a bit further."
The PRF kept coming. Fifty yards from the trench. Forty.
"Frank," Duke said in an urgent whisper.
"I know."
Thirty yards.
"Fra-"
"I think that's close enough."
Frank's thumb came down on the detonator.
Sharp cracks erupted from the ground, spewing dirt and grass . . .
. . . and 2,800 little steel balls from the four Claymore mines Frank planted the night before.
More than a dozen PRF soldiers collapsed, their bodies shredded into bloody chunks of meat.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Duke climbed out of the trench. Many of the surviving PRF soldiers lay on the ground, some injured, some hoping to avoid any other projectiles.
Duke and his men charged down the hill. Two commie soldiers pushed themselves to their feet. Duke fired two quick bursts from his Thompson. Both soldiers fell on their faces, never to rise again.
Max hefted his .30 cal. Yellow tracers flew out the barrel. Huge red holes exploded across the torsos of two soldiers. A third rose nearby. Max rammed the machine gun's stock into the soldier's gut, then drove an elbow into the back of his neck.
"WAAAAA!" Han knocked down a soldier with a palm strike to the face. He howled, spun and kicked another soldier in the face. Han pulled two throwing stars from his pouch and flung them in rapid succession. Each one struck a PRF soldier in the throat.
Will cracked another soldier in the jaw with the butt of his M-14 sniper rifle. He turned to find a Guatemalan who could be older than 15. The teen held an AK-47 with trembling hands.
Will glared at him. "If you shoot that thing, you better make damn sure you hit me."
The young rebel swallowed. He dropped the rifle and took off running.
The gunfire tapered off. Duke scanned the area. No PRF soldiers were left standing.
"Well, that wasn't so tough." Max grinned.
"Perhaps. But it's about to get a lot tougher." Frank nodded toward the road.
Duke turned. His body tensed.
Four M3 half-tracks rolled toward them. Each one carried between six to ten PRF soldiers. They also carried two .50 caliber machine guns.
"Back to the trench!" yelled Duke.
The five men dashed back up the hill. Han flew past Duke. So did Max. So did Frank and Will. Duke pumped his legs hard, trying to keep up.
It was a bitch getting old.
Duke dove into the trench just as he heard the deep chugging of the .50 calibers. He just missed landing on one of the male captives, Paul, as the big rounds tore into the earth and chopped through the berm.
"Man, where the hell's our ride?" hollered Max.
"That's what I aim to find out." Duke grabbed the receiver from Frank's R/T unit. "Colt! Colt, we're taking heavy fire. Where the hell are you?"
"I'm almost there, Duke."
"How soon is almost?"
"Almost . . . there!"
Duke heard the heavy thumping of rotorblades. He peeked over the berm.
A gray, bulbous H-19 Chickasaw helicopter rose above the trees. It dove on the enemy half-tracks. Two orange flashes lit up each side. .50 caliber rounds rained down on the PRF. Soldiers tumbled out of the half-tracks, some missing limbs or heads. A stream of fire gushed out a tube in the chopper's nose. Flames washed over the half-tracks. Several soldiers ran and twisted, their bodies ablaze. Sparks shot from the vehicles as ammunition cooked off.
Duke grinned. As infuriating as Colt Clay could sometimes be, he had to tip his hat to the man's mechanical genius. In 24 hours, he transformed that old helicopter into a fearsome gunship.
Colt put the Chickasaw down on the middle of the hill. Duke and the others hurried aboard. The helicopter lifted off and flew west, toward the Pacific and the waiting cargo ship captained by an old friend of Frank's.
Duke went over to the captives. "You three okay?"
They nodded, with Paul asking, "Who sent you here?"
"Your parents, and hers." Duke nodded to Cynthia. Paul's father owned a chain of grocery stores across the Eastern US, while Cynthia's father was a top executive for Mobil Oil. They footed the bill for this rescue operation when negotiations by the State Department proved futile. Ron, however, came from a working class family with not a lot of money. Still, it wasn't like Duke would just leave him in Guatemala. Unlike a lot of mercenaries he knew, he did operate by a code of honor. Part of that code was you didn't leave an innocent boy in the hands of Godless commie pukes.
Even if that boy looked more like a girl.
"Well, smile and give thanks to God. You're alive and your next stop is the good ol' US of A."
"What's so good about it?" Ron snapped.
Duke clenched a fist. He had to will himself not to belt this little punk across the chops.
"All you did back there was show what's wrong with America," said Cynthia. "We just go around the world murdering people because they're poor and they have dark skin."
Duke scowled. "In case you weren't aware of it, those poor, dark-skinned people were going to kill you."
"Only because you forced them into thinking violence is their only option," Paul shot back. "With all your wars and bullying and stealing from the poor to feed the military-industrial complex."
Max scrunched his face. "Is this cat for real?"
"You are wrong." Han raised a finger. "No one forced those men into their decision, and violence was not their only option. There were many paths all those men could have chosen. Some easy, some hard. They made the conscious decision to choose the easy path, to use violence and intimidation to achieve their ends."
Max pointed to Han. "Is this cat for real?"
Anger lines dug deep into Duke's face. "You may not like us or what we do, but we did come over a thousand miles and risked our necks to save yours. You'd think you could swallow some of that pride and at least say, 'Thank you.'"
Paul barked out a laugh. "You want us to thank you for spreading more violence throughout the world? Screw you, old man."
Duke's eyes narrowed. He snatched a helmet hanging from the hull, put it on and activated the microphone.
"Colt."
"Yeah, Duke."
"Take us back."
"What?"
"What?" blurted Max.
"What?" blurted Paul.
"It seems our hippie friends would rather rot in a Guatemalan jungle than show an ounce of appreciation to the people who saved their worthless hides. So we're gonna take 'em back."
"Um, okay," replied Colt. "If you say so."
"I do say so."
The Chickasaw started to turn.
"Wait!" Paul screamed.
Duke leaned closer. "Got something to say?"
Paul's face tightened. He took a breath. "Thank you."
"See. That wasn't so tough." To Colt, he said, "Forget what I said. Continue on to the ship."
"You got it, Boss."
Duke turned to the three hippies and gave them a wry grin. "Who says kids these days don't have manners?"
XXXXX
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, September 9th, 1971
Merrick went through three cigarettes before he reached the end of the report. A hazy cloud of whitish smoke hung near the ceiling of his office as he closed the folder. The head of the CIA Special Operations Group, Unit 12 stretched out his tall, lean frame in his swivel chair and stared at the big block letters on the folder.
PROJECT ASCENSION.
DESIGNATION: ABOVE TOP SECRET
During Merrick's twenty-plus years with The Agency, he'd seen all sorts of top secret files, information that would blow the mind of the average person. But this? Part of him couldn't believe it was real. But it had to be. President Nixon had given the CIA the go-ahead on this operation. His exact words were, "Get this thing by any means necessary."
So Richard M. Helms, the Director of Central Intelligence himself, laid this file on Merrick's desk and ordered him to, "Get someone who can retrieve this."
Helms did give him some mission parameters. Whoever was assigned to this could not be an employee of the CIA. The chance for direct action was too great, and The Agency did not want to risk any blowback. They needed some outside operatives, men who, if captured, the United States Government could deny any association with them.
Merrick had a list of such people and groups in his rolodex. But he didn't need to go through it. He already had one group in mind.
He looked to the other file on his desk, the one the head of the Central America Desk brought to him an hour ago. It detailed the rescue of the three Americans held hostage by the People's Revolutionary Faction. All three were safely returned to their families. In the process, the rescue team killed the PRF's leader, Commander Estrada, and nearly half his guerilla force.
Half-a-dozen men had crippled one of the biggest communist rebel groups in Guatemala.
Merrick smiled. Major Duke Stryker and his Expendables would be perfect for this mission.
TO BE CONTINUED
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Here is some background on the actors portraying these characters.
John Wayne – Starred in numerous westerns and WWII movies.
Sean Connery – The original James Bond, 007.
Clint Eastwood – Starred in several "Spaghetti Westerns" and "Dirty Harry."
Bruce Lee – Played Kato in "The Green Hornet." Appeared in several martial arts movies, including "Enter the Dragon."
Steve McQueen – Starred in such action movies as "The Magnificent Seven," "The Great Escape" and "Bullitt."
Richard Roundtree – Played the titular character in "Shaft."
Chuck Connors - Star of TV's "The Rifleman."
