The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  “Are you sure everyone knows what to watch for?” Atcho called across the intercom to Green. Horton sat silently behind Atcho.

  “They’re looking for a man delivering some type of object,” Green replied. “He’ll be unknown to the crew, wherever he stops. He won’t want to engage in conversation. He could stop near a well, an oil lake, or a debris cluster and carry the object out and set it down. No one is to try to stop him. Just observe and report. Fast.”

  “Roger.”

  The Blackhawk flew close to the ground, below the ever-present black cloud that hung in the sky. When Atcho last traveled through the area, the landscape was an empty wasteland, dark, with no other living creature in sight. Now, it was still a wasteland, but populated with people and equipment. The area under the cloud was illuminated by thousands of ghostly lights dimmed by the fog of dirty vapor emanating from the wells.

  And the demons still dance. Atcho stared out the window at the vast expanse of desert with its oil-blackened sand and tall jets of glowing flame under billowing smoke. Can it ever be put out? He looked ahead through the windshield. Discernible from the air were two parallel lines of loosely separated vehicles and equipment with their individual lights stretching toward the oilfields.

  “Sir,” Green called over the intercom. “All five vehicles in question are ahead of us. The closest one is roughly ten miles ahead.”

  “All right. Hang back. Let them reach whatever their destinations are.”

  “We just got a report from one of the observation posts. One of the trucks tried to turn off. When he found his way blocked, he stopped the truck. He’s just sitting in it.” He paused, listening to his headset. “Hey. He’s getting out.”

  “Get a couple of guys over to look inside the truck.”

  They waited while the Blackhawk closed the distance in the eerie orange glow against the black sky and the combined sound of engines and the unearthly roar of burning wells. “The truck is clear. Nothing in it.”

  “One down. Have your guys take the man into custody.”

  Green gave him a thumbs-up. “We’ve got another one going down. Pretty much the same way. The driver is sitting in the truck.” He held up a finger. “Two more have pulled to a stop.”

  The pilot jinxed the Blackhawk through the turbulent air while avoiding flying too close to any wells. The corridor of vehicles below led deep into the oilfield. At one juncture, they had blocked the road.

  Green pointed down. “That’s where they’re holding the first guy. We’re coming up on the second one ahead. He’s clear now too.” He put his hand to his ear. “OK. The fifth truck has stopped. It’s near one of the largest fires in the field. The guy is getting out. He’s carrying a box.”

  “Tell the observers to stay back and appear not to notice him. Take the others into custody.”

  Green nodded. A few moments later, he raised a finger again. “Fifth man walked to a debris cluster. He set the box on the ground and returned to the truck. He’s reversing direction.”

  “Cut him off and detain him,” Atcho called. “Keep his hands secure.” His heartbeat surged. “Pilot, get us to that location ASAP.”

  “Roger.”

  The nose of the Blackhawk dipped as the pilot nudged the cyclic forward and pulled power. Within moments, the nose leveled out as the aircraft reached full speed and zipped through the dark sky.

  Soon, Green pointed. “There.”

  Atcho stared through the windshield. Ahead of them, a tower of flame at least five feet across jetted into the air. A lone, melted derrick stood to one side. Across the road, a cluster of nondescript debris spread across a wide area. A few yards beyond that, a low area in the desert collected oil runoff and formed a lake. The perfect site to plant the bombs. He pushed the thought from his mind.

  The aircraft landed. Atcho stepped onto black, spongy sand. The heat from the flames hit, searing through his clothes. He fought against the wind generated by the churning fire’s suction of air and circled in front of the helicopter. He met Green and Horton on the other side. The three stooped and hurried from under the whirring blades.

  “What’s going on with the prisoner?” Atcho yelled through the roar.

  “They’ve got him, but he isn’t saying anything.”

  “Right. Send the man from the observation post over here.”

  A few minutes later, a clench-jawed young Marine presented himself. “Did you see where he put that box?” Atcho asked.

  “I said it’s a box because I didn’t know what else to call it. It had an odd shape. In this light, I couldn’t make it out very well. He took it over this way.” He led off.

  The three men followed across the road to the clutter of debris. Up close, the area did not seem so large, just a collection of rubble at the side of the road. A few feet in, a cube-shaped object stood out in the shadows. “That’s it,” the Marine said. “It looks like several suitcases bound together.”

  Atcho’s adrenaline surged. Despite seeing what he had expected to see, the reality of the nuclear bomb up close and ready to blast against the backdrop of the towering flame and a rolling black sky took his breath away. “Wait here,” he told the others, and started into the field.

  A heavy hand grabbed Atcho’s shoulder. He whirled to see Horton’s face grinning into his own. “You cain’t go in there, sir,” he said. “That’s my job.”

  Atcho started to protest.

  “Sir, this is still a military operation, and you’re a civilian. If I have to pull rank on you, I will. For all you know, that bomb has been booby-trapped. It could be set up to kill anyone tampering with it without setting off the bomb.”

  Atcho stared.

  “Are you a demolitions expert?” Horton continued. Without waiting for a response, he went on. “Well I am. I taught the Montagnards in Vietnam how to set booby traps. My MOS as an enlisted man was in explosive ordinance disposal. I’m what they call an EOD specialist. Now if you’ll step aside, I’ll do my job.” He started into the debris field.

  “Don’t you need a special suit?” Atcho called after him.

  Without turning, Horton shook his head and waved him off with both hands.

  Atcho turned to Green. “Doesn’t he need a special suit?”

  “It’s in the helicopter. He asked me to bring it.”

  “So, you knew he was EOD?”

  “He told us. It’s why we didn’t bring one with us.”

  “Why isn’t he putting the suit on?”

  “I’d say he thinks he might not have time.”

  Atcho’s mind raced. “Fine. Is that piece of equipment I requested here?”

  “It’s about ten minutes back. We pre-positioned it halfway up the road. It started following when we flew over it.”

  “I’ll need to talk with the operator before he does anything.” Atcho turned back anxiously to the debris field.

  Horton circled the bomb, scrutinizing it and the ground around it with a flashlight. He took deliberate steps and then lowered himself flat on the ground and inched toward the suitcases. He reached along his leg, pulled out a long, flat piece of wood, and slid it under the bomb. Then he felt along its underside gently.

  He repeated his motion on each of the other three sides. At one point, he pressed into the sand, pulled on a long wire, and stuffed it into his pocket. Finally, he stood up, waved an all-clear, picked up the suitcases in both arms, and walked toward Atcho.

  “The guy who set the booby trap on this thing was an amateur,” he gasped through staggered breaths. Perspiration ran down his face. “If it had gone off, it might have scared someone and cut a finger, but that’s about all. Looks like it was meant to buy time.” He set the suitcases down next to his leg. They had been strapped together.

  Horton put his mouth close to Atcho’s ear. “I thought you said there were five of them. Where’s the fifth?”

  Atcho stared at the bundle. His jaw set in a grim line. “Let’s deal with what we’ve got. We’ll go after the other one when we’r
e done.”

  Green tapped Atcho on the shoulder and pointed. The lights of a huge machine approached, the sound of its engine deafened by the roar of flames and wind. The apparatus looked like a mutated earth mover. Instead of a bucket, two pincer-like arms extended out the front.

  Green caught the operator’s eye, guided him into position, and signaled him to halt.

  Atcho climbed into the cockpit. Despite an air conditioner running at full blast, the heat of the cauldron was almost unrelenting. The driver streamed sweat. His face was coated in black oil, the whites of his eyes setting in sharp contrast against the blackness. Only the red edges of his eyelids showed any color.

  When Atcho closed the door, the outside roar abated a bit. “What’s your name?”

  “Bob.”

  Atcho shook his hand. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  Bob grinned slightly and seesawed his hand, the international standard for, “Maybe.”

  Atcho shot him back a smile he did not feel. “Do you see that object down there next to the major’s leg?” The man nodded. “I need you to put it in that fire.” He pointed to the giant flame in front of them. “Can you do that?”

  A look of caution crossed Bob’s face. “I can, but what is it?”

  Atcho stared into Bob’s eyes. “It’s a bomb, and it’s probably on a timer. If you can’t do it, then you need to tell me how to operate this machine. We need to make decisions now.”

  Bob stared at the suitcases and then at the fire. He turned back to Atcho. His face had gone slack. Even the edges of his eyelids had drained of blood and were now a pasty white. He swallowed hard. “Won’t that set off the bomb?”

  “No. The heat will melt the trigger mechanism.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Atcho looked around. A crowd of crew members and Marines had formed behind them. In front of them, Horton and Green watched.

  “It should work. Melting the trigger worked before.” He took a deep breath. “Look, before you decide, there’s something else you should know. That’s a nuclear bomb. Well, in reality, it’s four of them strapped together.”

  Bob stared in silence. Against the darkness outside, he looked like two floating, disbelieving eyes on a black silhouette. “That’s four nuclear bombs, and you want me to put them in that fire?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Bob, listen to me. They’re on a timer. Neither of us has time to get out of the blast area. The only way to stop it now is to disable the trigger mechanisms. If we open the bombs, their fail-safe systems will activate to set them off. We can destroy the triggers by melting them. Without the shock they produce at precise points, the bombs can’t detonate. Putting them in the fire is our only chance.”

  Bob sat in silence.

  Atcho could not tell if he were in shock or just thinking. “Let me do it,” Atcho called. “No one will blame you. We dropped this on you with short notice.”

  Bob still said nothing, staring to his front. Atcho started to clamber over to the driver’s seat. “Let’s switch places.”

  Bob snapped out of his trance. “No. I’ll do it.”

  “You’ll what? Are you sure?”

  “I’ll do it.” He turned his eyes to Atcho. “Have you ever operated one of these machines?”

  Atcho shook his head without speaking.

  “If you do it wrong, we’re all going to die, right?”

  Atcho nodded. “Probably.”

  “So, my best chance of living is to do it myself. This is a very precise machine. It’s used to cap runaway oil-well fires. I can’t teach you in one minute how to operate it. How much time do I have?”

  “We don’t know. The bomb was placed out here thirty minutes ago. The guy who planted it is under guard a few hundred yards from here. He’s not the martyr type. He’d want to get at least to Riyadh. So, relax, take your time, and do it right the first time.”

  Bob nodded. He turned to Atcho again, the whites of his eyes still floating in darkness. He glanced at the group of Marines and workers standing back, watching. “Those are my friends,” he said. “I have a family.” His voice broke. “I need to see them again.”

  Atcho reached across and grasped his shoulder. “Do what I tell you, and we’ll all get out of this, and you’ll see your wife and kids.” An image of Sofia with a baby floated across his mind. The tenor of his voice changed. “Now, listen to me. Pick up the bombs so that the far end of their bottoms goes into the fire first. I’ll position them in the pincers.

  “Don’t rush. Inch into the flame. The pincers will act as a shield for the near side of the bombs until the triggers are melted. When you see the ends of the suitcases burnt up, drop the rest of them into the fire.”

  “The bottoms of the far ends go in first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’m ready.” His eyes looked straight ahead. Then, as Atcho started to clamber out of the cockpit, he turned. “One thing,” he said, those floating eyes staring at Atcho. “Don’t ever ask me for another favor.” His white teeth showed in the dark. They shaped into a grin. He reached over and slapped Atcho’s shoulder. “On second thought, you owe me a beer.” He faced straight ahead again. “I got this.”

  Moments later, Atcho kneeled on the ground and set the strapped-together suitcases between the pincers. Their ends jutted out a quarter of the way beyond the giant fingers.

  Atcho stepped back. He signaled Bob. The ground shook. The roar of wind and flame still muffled the great engine. The arms lifted, the pincers extended, the black smoke roiled overhead. The mammoth machine began its slow roll toward the fire.

  Inch by inch, it crept forward. Watching, Atcho sensed a fracturing between a single moment and eternity. Horton stepped next to him, at a loss for words.

  The machine rolled on, its pincers fully extended. The gap between them and the flame narrowed to yards, then feet, then inches. Even before reaching the fire, the corners of the suitcases began to smolder. The iron beast slowed even more. Its deadly cargo edged into the fire and burst into flame. Farther and farther, the bomb moved into the inferno, the steel pincers turning red hot. Then suddenly they separated, and the remaining parts dropped into the flames.

  Despite the continuous roar, a deafening quiet seemed to have descended. For a moment, no one moved. Then Atcho felt a strong hand clap him on the back. He turned to see Horton’s signature grin as he threw his arms around Atcho’s chest and lifted him into the air. If he cheered, Atcho could not hear it for the omnipresent roar. Next to them, Green jumped up and down, his fists raised over his head in unabashed joy. Beyond them, some among the crowd of oilfield workers raised their arms in expressions of a job well done, but nothing celebratory. They don’t know what just happened.

  When Horton set him back down, Atcho turned to look at the pincer machine. It moved in reverse now, at greater speed than it had approached the fire. When it reached a safe distance, it stopped. Bob clambered down. He reached the ground and leaned against the machine to steady his wobbly legs.

  Atcho headed in his direction. Bob saw him coming. He took a cloth from a pocket and wiped the oil from his face as best he could. He kept wiping as he stumbled toward Atcho. When they met, Bob almost fell to the ground. Atcho caught him and stood him up.

  “I want you to see my face and remember it,” Bob croaked. “You’re going to get me my beer.”

  Atcho threw his arms around Bob in a bearhug. “How could I ever forget those eyes?”

  32

  “Where is that son-of-a-bitch?” Atcho demanded. His hands tightened into fists.

  Horton chuckled. “I didn’t know you knew how to use those descriptors.” He snickered. “See how my vocabulary is expanding from hanging around with you?” He laughed again. “Descriptors,” he repeated. “Des-crip-tors. I like that word.”

  “I save my cussing for special occasions. It’s more effective that way. Where’s Klaus?”

  “The MPs took him back to the rear. They’ll hold him.” They rode
in the back seat of a pickup headed south, back to headquarters.

  “Why did Green fly off with the helicopter?” Atcho asked.

  “He got a call from the boss. The big boss, ol’ Stormin’. He said the mission was accomplished, and Alsip needed Green.” Horton chortled. “We ain’t important no more.”

  “But the mission isn’t accomplished,” Atcho said. “Klaus had five bombs. We only saw four of them. Where’s the fifth?”

  Horton pursed his lips. “I was the guy who raised the question, remember?”

  They urged the driver to greater speed. Two hours later, they arrived at the Military Police station at Marine headquarters. Atcho jumped from the pickup and rushed inside. Horton followed.

  “Where are the prisoners?” he demanded without ceremony. Startled, the desk sergeant looked up at him. “Sir–” Before he could say another word, Horton intervened.

  It’s all right,” he said. “Those men that were brought in from the oilfields a little while ago. Where are they being held?”

  The sergeant still eyed Atcho. “They’re at the back in a holding cell. I’ll have to get clearance to let you see them.”

  Horton stared at him, stone faced. “Get it,” he said. “Here. Radio out to this call sign.” He handed over a piece of paper with writing on it.

  The sergeant snapped to attention, focused on Horton. “Sir, that’s General Schwarz—”

  “I know whose call sign it is, Sergeant,” Horton interrupted, “an’ I ain’t got a lot of time or patience. Get the general on the horn or get us back to see those detainees.”

  “Do you need to speak with them? I mean actually talk?”

  “No, we just need to see them.”

  “I can have them brought into the interrogation room. You can see them through the window. They’ll be heavily guarded.”