by G M Eppers
Dinny didn’t move. “I won’t play.”
Badassi tilted his head curiously. Had no one else refused him? That couldn’t be the case. He should have been expecting that reply by now. He spun the cylinder again, stepped back, pointed it at Dinny’s head. I held my breath. Dinny stopped breathing and squeezed her eyes shut.
The gun clicked, but didn’t fire.
I saw her eyes open again, then close in relief before meeting my gaze.
“You just did,” said Badassi. He took her by the arm and guided her to her chair, where she sat like a dropped bag of potatoes. He put the Ruger in her hand, molding both of her hands around it in a steady grip. “Your turn.” With her hands in place, he stepped back, his arms wide in the showman gesture of “and now, ladies and gentlemen, the pièce de résistance.” One hand dropped in defeat and shaking, she pointed the gun at her own head. “No, no, no,” said Badassi. He pointed at me. “Her.”
“But it’s Russian roulette.”
“What do the Russians know? They conspired with an idiot. No, it’s Bantu roulette. I’ve dealt with people like you before. Heroes.” He spat the word out, making it sound distasteful and vulgar. “You think nothing of shooting yourself.” He obviously had no idea that this was not Dinny’s normal line of work. She hadn’t trained for self-sacrifice, unless you count the food service on the plane. “But shooting each other…” He grinned, and the men on the benches hooted. “That’s another matter. Your kind are protective of each other.” He squatted down next to her, getting very close. “Don’t you feel it?” Slowly, he guided her hand down and swiveled the gun barrel toward me. “See the difference?” He rose again and stepped back so the audience had a good view.
I saw moisture on her cheeks I hadn’t noticed before. It could have been raindrops from the brief deluge. It was far too humid for it to evaporate. But it could have been fresh tears, too, or sweat. Her teeth played with her bottom lip. I couldn’t see her breathing.
“I don’t blame you, Dinny. Just do it.” I thought she might get the same idea I had, to point it at Badassi at the last second, but the odds were only one in four that there was a bullet in that chamber. If the round failed, there wouldn’t be another chance. On my turn the odds would be one in three, which I considered far better. Waiting for 50/50 or the sure bet was more risk than I wanted to take. And as the leader of my group I felt the responsibility for taking the shot should be mine. Besides, if the shot succeeded, and his men retaliated, I wanted the blame to fall on me. I held onto the hope that seeing Badassi go down would be more like the guards in The Wizard of Oz after the Wicked Witch of the East melted. They didn’t look like they were oppressed. They looked like they were seriously enjoying their jobs, but in these situations you hold onto whatever you can. I played the low moan of the guard chant in my head as I waited for Dinny to pull the trigger.
“I can’t.”
Badassi made a small gesture and the nearest guerrilla rose, raising his weapon. He cocked the gun, startling Dinny, who jumped in her seat.
“It’s all right,” I told her again.
With the assault rifle aimed at her, she squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger.
The audience erupted at the resulting silence and more betting took place.
Dinny dropped the gun, deflated like one of the tube guys outside the White House on Big Block of Cheese Day, and started breathing as if she had just come up for air after a deep dive.
True to my word, I reached across the drying pink puddles for the Ruger and slipped my finger through the trigger, aiming it at Dinny. I winked at her, but I wasn’t sure if she saw or would have gotten the meaning. Without moving my head much, I turned my eyes to take note of where Badassi was standing. He was at my four o’clock, which was going to be awkward. I’d have to move very quickly. I let it drag on a bit, cocking the gun, getting ready.
Just as I was ready to whirl around, a huge commotion erupted. Screams, shouts, and gunshots came to us from the direction of the compound. Badassi took one last look at us, then dismissed us, realizing we were deep in an unknown jungle holding a gun with only one bullet in it. He called to his men and they moved quickly and en masse back to the encampment, leaving us standing there. I put on the safety and tucked the gun barrel into my pants pocket. Pants pockets make lousy holsters, but it was all I had. “Dinny, are you okay?”
“I guess so. Who…?” She pointed at the table top.
“Edward Hightower, I think.”
With that, she turned away from me and threw up on the nearest tree trunk.
Once her spasms had passed, I asked, “Are you okay?”
She nodded. I tried to put on a grin and commented, “Good thing they didn’t bring Billings in here. He would have made you take your clothes off.”
“Naked Russian roulette?” She was doubtful.
“You’re right. This would have been nude.”
A moment later and we too were heading back to the compound to see what all the fuss was about. As we neared, we could hear more noise. Men shouting, and what was by now familiar howling and screeching. Dinny and I exchanged a look as we approached the perimeter. The guerrillas were running in all directions, protecting their heads with their hands as bonobos, by the hundreds, leaped on them. Bonobos grabbed rifles from unsuspecting guerrillas and used them as clubs, screaming and screeching and howling as they jumped all over the camp. The long table was already overturned and two of the shelters were in tatters.
Then, high above, we heard the sound of multiple rotors and long ropes dropped down through the treetops. Dozens of people dressed in black and heavily armed came down on the ropes. Some dismounted the ropes before they even hit ground by stepping onto a tree branch, then jumping to the ground with guns ready.
I put an arm across Dinny’s path and kept us at the edge of the camp as bullets rained. I hoped the bonobos would stay out of danger, but everything seemed to be moving at once. The guerrillas were disappearing into the jungle, but the Black Ops were right behind them, as sure footed as billy goats. In a few moments, the compound went quiet, the noise fading like a passing train. Glancing in both directions, I carefully emerged into the clearing and motioned for Dinny to follow. I hurried over to the cage, where everyone was staying low and toward the back. “You guys okay?” I yelled. I got back several affirmatives as I attacked the complicated rope knots around the doorway. “What the hell happened?”
Billings moved forward, watching me work on the rope, and reported. “When Susan came back, she told us you said help was on the way but she wasn’t sure what you meant by that. Nitro knew it meant she had the activated STD. I guess she didn’t even feel the injection. Sylvia felt we needed a distraction so when the help came they would have some kind of advantage, and she’d seen the bonobos following us all along. She tossed the entire bag of Squerky onto the table and about fifty bonobos went after it. The guerrillas tried to shoo them away and ended up getting attacked instead. They were mainly staying in the compound, running around trying to literally get the monkeys off their backs when the choppers came.”
“We saw. Black Ops? Is that what CURDS is using for extraction now? Did I miss a memo, Badger?” I had untied the knots, but there was still the metal lock. I took the Ruger out of my pocket, extracted the one bullet just to be safe, and used the butt end to hammer away at the lock. The humidity was causing it to rust, but it still took several whacks before the hasp broke. I was happy to open the door and let everyone out. Iris was being helped by her team mates. Badger and Sylvia righted the table. It was just the right height for Iris to use as a chair. The twins gathered the empty HEP belts and distributed them. Even empty, they were a welcome addition.
“I don’t know why the Black Ops, Helena. No, that is not the usual extraction team. But I’m willing not to argue about it.” He leaned against the table. “I guess when they finish their job they’ll come back and get us.”
Roxy and Sir Haughty, in the meantime, had taken a cautious t
our of the shelters to make sure no guerrillas were hiding. It seemed even the young ones had followed their elders into the jungle. The place was now completely deserted. Sir Haughty came back with a pile of cell phones and Roxy had a few stun guns that people had dropped in their haste to escape. “That bigger shelter is storage. A bunch of crates, probably the cargo from the CURDS3,” she said.
“I’ll inventory it,” said Badger, and he pushed off from the table, found his phone from the pile, and walked over to the shelter Roxy had indicated. The phones had power, but no Internet connection. Fortunately, he didn’t need to be connected to record the data. There is an app for that.
Billings came over to me, with the twins behind encouraging Susan. They pushed her forward. He gave me a hug, whispering “Welcome back,” into my ear. He squeezed me a little harder than usual before he pushed away. “Susan wants to talk to you. Go ahead, Susan.”
Shyly, Susan stepped forward. “Don’t be shy,” I said.
After a quick encouraging look, Billings and the twins moved off to give us privacy. “I wanted to thank you. For sending me back. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did, actually. One, you were a basket case. Two, I needed to buy time. I didn’t know Black Ops was coming. I was expecting maybe four guys who could take out a couple dozen guerrillas with the helicopter blades before we all went down in a blaze of glory, but this works out so much better.” I offered her my hand. “You’ll be okay. I guarantee it.”
She started to take my hand. At that instant, all hell broke loose. Sylvia shouted at the very top of her lungs, “Everybody duck!”
On reflex, I dropped to the ground, as did everyone else. Except for Susan, whose reflexes weren’t quite back to normal after her ordeal. So when the handful of guerrillas reentered the compound shooting wild, she was the only one at bullet level. By the time she fell to the ground next to me, there were three bullet holes in her head and the lower half of her face had been blown away. Her eyes stared at me, seeing nothing.
I took one second to pound the ground and invent a new swear word. I lifted my head only enough to swing it around and take stock of the situation. I quickly counted five guerrillas, panicked and armed with pump-action rifles. I knew they were limited to at most ten rounds a piece and they’d all shot several on the way into the compound. They probably had more magazines on them and could reload quickly, but they would have to reload. I took a deep breath and shouted, “Disarm, Baker four!”
That was the code for grab the nearest object and heave it at the shooter to throw him off guard. I didn’t have time to see what everyone else was doing. The nearest object to me was Susan. Immediately, I knew I couldn’t get to my feet, lift her up and throw her like a basketball. It took too much time and she was far too heavy. I rolled on top of her then kept rolling until she was on top of me, her bloody face inches from my own. “I’m sorry about this, Susan.” During the roll, I got my feet in the air and under her belly, using my thigh muscles to push her body into the air in the direction of the nearest guerrilla. I never really got her into the air, but she went up on her feet briefly, flopping backwards heavily into the guerrilla, who dropped his weapon to push her away and then break his fall. As soon as I was free I reached across the ground and grabbed the weapon and was up on my feet pointing it at him a second later. He had pulled out a long barrel pistol and was aiming it at me, holding it in two slightly shaky hands, one elbow bent, the other straight and locked.
I froze. It was one of the younger ones, who up close looked to be maybe twelve. “Oh god,” I whispered to myself. “Please don’t make me do this.” He stared at me, terrified, but defiant all at the same time. I counted about five breaths while I considered what to do. “Badger!” I yelled. I didn’t know if he was available, but I needed him and I needed him now.
In the few moments before he arrived, I noticed Sylvia fighting her opponent. He had her head in his hands, preparing to break her neck. She denied him the torque by pushing off from the ground and spinning in the same direction, swinging a leg out to slam into his hip. Quickly, she moved her leg down, twisting and wrapping it around his lower leg to pull it out from under him while at the same time curling her hands inside the loop of his arms and pushing them down off her neck. She turned on him, hungry for more.
A short distance over and Sir Haughty was choking his opponent with his cravat. Elsewhere, Roxy had one of her shoes in her hand and was bludgeoning a guerrilla about the head with it. The pop-on wedge heel was in her other hand, so he had to duck to avoid losing an eye to her stiletto. That was all I had time to see before Badger got to me, whistling at my stand-off. “Shoot hi-,” he cut himself off when he got a good look at the kid, and he knew why I hadn’t fired.
“Do you know how to say ‘drop the gun’ in Swahili?” There was certainly no reason now to be careful about using the language.
“I’m not sure.” If he’d had an Internet connection, he could have looked up the exact phrase with his magic search engine, but that wasn’t possible.
“Try. I really don’t want to shoot him.”
Badger gathered himself, put on his stern face, and barked what sounded like an order at the kid.
The young guerrilla lowered his gun halfway, looking at Badger incredulously, his brows trying to meet each other in the middle. Badger repeated the order, a little less command-like.
The kid started laughing. The pistol fell to the ground and his arm crossed his abdomen, holding in the laughter as his other hand shot out, pointing at Badger. Badger ducked under my rifle before I had the chance to lower it and dived for the pistol. It wasn’t one of ours, but he tucked it in an empty pocket on his HEP belt anyway, and grabbed the kid by the arm.
He looked it up later, but I’ll save you the trouble. He had told the kid quite emphatically that his iguana wears sneezes.
I lowered my rifle and used the barrel as a support while I surveyed the compound. The attack had lasted only a minute or two, powered by a small group of guerrillas who had evaded capture by doubling back. Two of them lay dead, shot by each other in the melee. Avis and Agnes had three more under guard. Each twin held a guerrilla rifle inches from their faces. One was sporting a bruise where he’d been hit with a large rock.
A moment later, some of the Black Ops soldiers also came into the compound, producing handcuffs and smoothly taking over custody. “Who’s in charge here?”
I indicated that I was the ranking officer. “That would be me. Helena Montana, CURDS team A.”
“Major Riley,” he said, deliberately not making physical contact. A single nod of his head was all the acknowledgement he gave. “I think we got most of them. We’ll be recovering bodies all night,” he said, watching all around us for movement and holding his rifle pointing at the sky.
“Badassi?”
He shook his head. “Not that I saw. He’s probably heading for the shoreline. He might have a boat stored there for a getaway. I’ve alerted the Navy SEALS but they don’t have a ship in the area right now. His boat won’t be big enough for the open ocean, so he’ll have to keep close to shore and there are a thousand places he could go to ground. We’re probably not going to find him.”
That was disappointing. “What about his lieutenant. The guy with the gold tooth?”
He grinned with satisfaction. “Him we got. He’s lying about a mile away on one of those benches. I wonder who his dentist is.”
I turned away from Captain Riley and told Billings I was leaving the compound but I’d be back shortly. “Wait,” he said. He bent down and felt around on one of the dead guerrillas until he found a new cartridge for the rifle. He popped out the old one, which was likely close to or completely empty and installed the new one, pumping the first round into place. “There are still some guerrillas on the loose. I’ve got your back.”
“You don’t need –“
“Yes, I do.”
We walked back to the Russian roulette arena, where Billings let out a whistle to s
how how impressed he was. It was eerie, knowing I’d just been here, and now with the light almost gone it looked like a different place. Every bench had a body on it, more were laying in a couple rows on the open ground between, all stripped of their weapons and ammunition. I went over to Mr. Gold Tooth and stared down at him. Obeseki’s mouth was hanging open and the moonlight glinted off his gold tooth, making him easy to find. He’d been shot in the throat. With one hand, I found the length of leather around his neck, followed it to the tiger tooth pendant, then used both hands to slip the whole thing over his head. I crumpled it into the palm of my hand and stuffed it in my pocket. He could keep the tooth, but he couldn’t keep this. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”
When Billings and I got back to the compound, Sir Haughty was waiting for us. “Badger wants you. He’s in the big shelter over there.” He pointed. Though he hadn’t been necessarily included in the request, Billings came with me, reluctant to be separated. It was the biggest of the shelters in the area, but still fairly small, no more than twenty feet square. Wooden crates were stacked four layers high throughout most of the space. Badger was waiting for us near the back end, holding his phone up to record information from the labels. “What is it, Badger?”
He pointed with his phone at the crate in front of him and I stepped over.
The crate was labeled “Caravane – Status Unknown.” Below that was a shipping address to Cheese Club Chapter A14, located in Springfield, Illinois, my home town.
There was a chapter of Cheese Club in my home town.
It took a moment to sink in, as I stood there staring at the label. Finally, Badger said, “I forwarded it to Roger, but it won’t send until we get out of the blackout zone. “I’m ready if you are,” I said, then turned and walked out of the shelter, looking for the Black Ops.
I found the man who had told me about Gold Tooth and he was already on a military radio calling for their own extraction. It was only minutes later that the long ropes appeared and we could hear helicopter blades high above us. Military helicopters are huge. Three of them pulled out all of their people, plus our people, plus captured guerrillas, plus all the material confiscated from the compound including the weapons, ammunition, and crates of cheese. He told me that once everything was catalogued anything that belonged to us would be returned to the Director’s office for distribution. The four survivors of the CURDS3 crash would be taken to a Kinshasa hospital for medical evaluation. Psychological therapy would be required while they awaited a new plane, but I had my doubts that any of them would be returning to the field. The captured guerrillas would be taken to a military holding cell for criminal processing. The Black Ops has everything well in hand.
