by Attila Orosz
The Captain looked as emotionless as ever.
“Yes, Sir?”
The Colonel continued with some difficulty.
“The subjects have re-entered the right path without our intervention, so there was no need to employ your tactics of ‘shepherding’ them. Unfortunately, as my units have moved in to make the proceedings shorter… Well, basically to capture the subjects before they would complete their normal course, a little precaution I took… there were complications.”
The Captain seemed to be containing conflicting thoughts. All that was apparent from the outside was his eyebrows being pulled together slightly, but to the Colonel this told many tales. He had never seen this face of the Captain. He knew the reason too, the Colonel had just admitted he had been circumventing the Captain without letting him know. But the worst was yet to come.
“Captain, I’m sorry about your loss.”
“My loss?” Captain Patrick Rickard looked confused.
The Colonel recognised the hint of genuine emotion on the usually stone-set face. It seemed so out of place, like it was not him at all. This gave the Colonel some sort of perverse satisfaction, even from underneath the weight of the news he was about to break to him. I finally got you. Now he really broke him. From now on, the Captain was his own, he would do whatever he liked to him as well. But that would have to wait. Now the bad news. And then his plan had to be played out.
“Yes, well, your mother, you see.”
“My… mother?”
“She was caught in the line of fire, becoming a collateral. What is worse, the subjects have escaped.”
The Captain seemed to consider this for a while, his face beginning to turn pale, but as suddenly as the display of emotion came, it went away, and he looked sternly at the Colonel. This came as quite a shock. Nobody in such circumstances could recover that swiftly!
“Look… I know how you must be feeling,” added the Colonel in a half confused voice, “this is why I want to give you the opportunity to handle the case yourself. I give you the units to carry out your suggested scenario. ‘Shepherd them’, I think these were the words you used. I give you full control and full responsibility once again.”
“Yes, Sir. Consider the task completed.”
“Yes, I am sure it is.”
The Captain left. The Colonel allowed himself a half-smile. So it went easier than he had imagined. And, in the end, he was able to turn these events into profit. Now the Captain had a much stronger motive than loyalty alone. This time he would not fail. The Colonel lay back in his chair and let the smile spread on his face. Everything was going just right.
***
Mother! You cannot! You must not be dead! The Captain was beside himself as he was going down the corridor towards the command room. And the old bastard just threw the bloody thing out of his hands. He made it look like a great opportunity. And what an opportunity! But first things first.
It required an extreme mental effort to contain all his features. He stopped to catch his breath. Nobody must see he was afflicted. He took another deep breath. He counted to four. He exhaled to the count of six. Another breath, now he held it a little longer. Exhale, even longer. Now inhale, hold. He let the image of his dead mother go right into his lungs. It felt liquid. Exhale. The image went away, right through his nose.
Now the Colonel. Inhale, hold. He formed a picture of the Colonel, sitting smugly in his chair. He directed his hatred into that picture. All of it. He let it steep until he nearly suffocated on it. When he could not contain his breath any longer, he took the mental image and pulled it down into his stomach. He exhaled. The image remained right there, the hatred he felt made his abdomen tighten up. He could use this strength. It would help him to stay upright.
His head was clear now. He managed to keep his emotion, but now he controlled it. He was once again in perfect control of his mind and body. He could think as fast and clear as ever. It was time to get back to work. He adjusted his facial expression to that of complete indifference and went down the corridor. He entered the command room, and then his private control office.
A memo was already waiting with the details of the Colonel’s unit numbers, and an encryption key to use in communications. The smug bastard used them behind his back. He double-crossed him and ran his own little background operation, even as he himself directed the usual special units. He didn’t know how many more of the Colonel’s secret teams existed. Just how far did this fucker go? How long has he been at it? He took the communicator, set up the secure channel and spoke.
“CPCU-3, this is Captain Rickard. I am assuming direct command of your unit for the time being.”
“Captain Rickard, this is the Commander of Private Command Unit Number 3. At your service.”
“Identify yourself, commander.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, my orders are strict. This conversation never happened, and I don’t exist. Identification is out of the question.”
Fucker! “All right CPCU-3. Your brief?”
“To follow and carry out your orders, Sir, without question or delay.”
“Right. Now listen carefully. You are to open fire, but not on target. I repeat, open fire, but not on target. I want them in one piece.”
“Affirmative. Target will remain intact. Are we to reveal ourselves, Sir, or firing blind?”
“I leave it up to your judgement, commander. You are to shepherd them the HQ way. If you need to show yourself, do it. Only make sure they arrive ASAP.”
“Understood. Delivery in the shortest possible time.”
Good. The Colonel trained you well, I see.
“Anything else, Sir?” asked the unknown commander.
The Captain considered the situation. He realised that nobody else in the whole operation knew about his mother; her involvement was a secret only shared by the Colonel. The poor soul thought she did a service to humanity. Now she was gone. She had become an inconvenience, a connection between the Colonel and his undesirable secrets. He knew this, and he also knew this was the right time to find out all about it.
“Yes, commander. About the old woman’s house…”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Commander of PCU-3 stood by the footpath, helmet in hand, talking into his communicator. His team of two veteran patrolmen were patiently waiting a few steps away.
“We are following a hot trail, Sir… Yes, Sir…. Yes, certainly Sir… We have taken care of the house, yes. There was only a single collateral, an elderly woman, just like we expected… No prints, Sir. It is going to burn. Everything is going according to plan… Yes, Sir.”
He put the communicator back into its shoulder holster and turned to his soldiers. He could not quite follow the recent changes. The Colonel usually briefed him personally, his unit was not only special, it was somewhat like the Colonel’s small private army. He wasn’t sure if there were others like them, and he did not even care to know. All he did know was the prospect of being in the Colonel’s direct employment was a lot greater than doing his usual duties alone. He had heard of the Captain before, but was never quite sure of his role or involvement. Apparently he was quite deep in it himself, otherwise the Colonel would not have given him full control. Anyway, an order was an order, regardless of who it came from.
“Listen, boys—”
He could not finish the sentence as something came down on his exposed skull, cracking it open with a heavy blow. In his last moments of consciousness, he saw two figures jump on his troops. Then the world faded away.
***
Alex threw away the bloody branch that he had just picked it up before the ambush. It had been thick and heavy, lying on the ground right when he had needed it. They had jumped at the soldiers who had been trailing them since the old lady’s house and incapacitated all three of them before they could have realised what was happening.
He started with the one who held the communication device, careful to let him finish his report, so there would be no immediate suspicion from the other side.
A single blow was enough; the soldier collapsed under the weight of wood. Then he and the African lunged at the two remaining soldiers, who were too surprised to react. One got the branch flailing into his face. He flew several feet backwards and never got up again. The African held the third man in a choke-hold. The old man was too weak to do serious harm, but he seemed desperate enough to cling onto the guard with all the strength he could muster. Alex rushed to his aid. After three fistfuls of bone cracking punches, he nodded to his companion. The other let the inert body slip. The soldier fell to the ground, unmoving. It felt good and somehow righteous too. These fuckers had killed that old lady there, Alex was sure of that. He had heard their guns go off.
He was about to leave when he saw one of the men twitch. He stopped and thought for a moment. It was his life at stake. No, both their lives. He made it, they made it, this far, and this was not the time to be weak. He reached down to the nearest soldier’s belt and unclipped a handgun. It was a heavy weapon, much heavier than those he had used for target shooting in his younger days.
He looked at the first soldier who was already making an attempt to get up. He aimed. The soldier grabbed at his own shoulder, but did not seem to find what he was looking for. He shuffled about, feeling the ground with his hand. His eyes were covered with blood, streaming from his open skull. Alex knew he could not see them. He tried the trigger. It gave a little resistance, but felt very much like what he remembered. Just do it. He looked up at the African. The man was looking at him with wide eyes, mouth open, forehead sweating. Alex saw the African tremble. He had killed for me. He killed a guard to save me.
Alex looked back down. The soldier had found what he was looking for. Grabbing at the communicator, he tried to work out the right end before attempting the call. He seemed to be still blinded and trying to feel his way about. Alex looked up again. He saw the African nod, or so it looked. He could not tell whether he really nodded, or it was only his fancy, but there was no time to find it out. He squeezed the trigger. Then he squeezed it again.
It must have been the sound of the gun going off, but the third soldier groaned, jumped to his feet and lunged towards Alex. His reaction was a reflex. He spun around himself, and fired instinctively to where he thought the soldier to be. There was a thud, and another lifeless body hit the ground. He looked for the remaining man, but found him lying still with his face bashed in.
Alex stood motionless, gripping the gun hard. He had often wondered what it would be like to kill a man, but it was nothing like he had imagined it. Right at the moment he had felt nothing. Then it slowly turned into a heavy weight lifting off his shoulders. It was embarrassingly liberating. He stood there and wondered if that was because this meant that they were free to leave, or if it had anything to do with having repaid a debt of his own life to the African, but deep inside he knew that it was probably his old, self-absorbed rage, lashing out and finding satisfaction in hurting others. After all these years, having punished only himself, it just felt good to take it out on someone else.
Suddenly a familiar hiss rose up behind the trees, turning into a whizzing sort of sound.
“The drone!” he shouted. “Get moving!”
I am a murderer, aiding an illegal. Good as dead. He decided not to give in that easy. He slapped the silent African on the back and they ran into the shelter of the trees.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jumaane was trying to catch up with the white man before him. He shouted, but the other wouldn’t pay attention. Behind them he heard a strange whizzing sound and occasional gunfire, but they were getting away from all the fuss quite quickly. He had never seen a map before, but he recognised the skulls printed over the green areas on the piece of paper the old lady had given him. The grandmother said, it was a drawing that would tell them which way to go, and which parts to avoid. The white man might be able to read it; he should at least have a look.
“Hey!” Jumaane shouted at the top of his voice, but the other just kept running, breaking down the bushes and twigs around him. The man moved like a forest hog among the trees. He makes good path for us, Jumaane thought, like a hog. But he will kill us if he thinks as little as a hog.
“Stop at once!”
He knew he was trying in vain. Maybe the man’s mind was full with the killing. He knew, when he had killed the soldier, he could not think straight either. But then the white friend had been there and took Jumaane by the arm and dragged him out of that tunnel. He had saved the man’s life and afterwards he took care of Jumaane. It was now Jumaane’s turn to pay back with thinking straight for both of them. I must run faster! His ankle was giving out and his shoulder began bleeding. Grappling with the soldier twice his weight, and many times his strength, had eaten up his energies. But if he did not make an effort they could both die! He tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his leg and ran as fast as he could. The white man was still a few paces ahead but the distance was shortening. He pushed harder. Almost there. He could almost grab his shoulder. A few more steps.
Then his hurt ankle felt like it broke in two as it got caught in a root. Jumaane fell, face forward, with all the inertia of his desperate sprint. As he fell, he had just enough time to reach for the man before him, and he managed to touch his belt. He grabbed it as hard as he could and came crashing into the ground bringing the white man with him. The other stumbled, but did not fall. He spun around with surprising speed and pointed the gun he was still grasping at Jumaane. He is not here. The man’s eyes were clouded, he looked empty. He was looking at Jumaane, yet he seemed not to recognise him. He shouted something and cocked the gun. Jumaane stumbled to his knees, with his hands on his head.
“It’s me, Jumaane, don’t shoot! It’s me! Can’t you see?”
He knew that could not. He saw nothing. His eyes were looking nowhere. The white man shouted something again, then he lowered the weapon and muttered to himself.
“It’s fine, it’s all good, it’s just me, you see?”
The man threw the gun away and his shoulders sagged. Jumaane knew it was no time to be weak. He picked up the weapon and gave it back to him.
“You will need it. You can use it good, I saw. Now we need weapons. We have no protection. You keep it!”
The man said something and put the weapon awkwardly into his belt. He motioned to Jumaane to follow him and wanted to start running, but Jumaane would not let him.
“No, wait! You have to look at this! The lady gave this to me. This can lead us to safety.”
The man took the map from his hand and examined it with interest. He turned it around in his hands a few times, then he started looking about himself, then up at the sky and back at the road they had come from. Jumaane waited patiently. His friend was behaving strangely, but it looked like he was trying to find directions. Jumaane could not think how, to him the map was just a bunch of colourful blots and writing, although he suspected the green might mean the trees. He stepped closer and looked at the map. If the green means trees and the skulls are on the green, the forest must be dangerous. He pointed them out to the white man.
“See these? These might be exploding just like before.”
The man looked at him like he understood what he said. He nodded his head and started looking about himself. He swept the ground very gently with his feet. Smart man, he is looking for the exploding ground.
***
Alex was still shaken, but getting a grip of himself. He could not tell how far they had advanced in the forest, but by any measure they must have been deep in the middle of a minefield, if he could believe the map the African had produced. Rickard’s mother had been quite resourceful. He had never seen a map like that himself. It was a detailed military map of the area, marking all the minefields. Even Peter had said he did not know where those were.
Alex had not thought much about Peter since he had died, but killing the soldiers just now, brought back the sad feeling of a young life lost, for nothing. Those men he had shot looked like veterans. But Peter ha
d been so much younger. He had also had hope, something to look forward to. Not many can afford that around these parts. It was a shame really, but now he could fully understand the African’s actions too, and he knew it was not easy for him either.
He had to concentrate on the map. The road itself was marked with a green line, possibly meaning a safe route. Another, thinner green line led through the trees, some distance away from the road. It looked twice as long but it was quite far away from any main route. It led through the minefield, but the green marking had to mean a safe path. The thin line eventually converged back into the road, just before it reached an unmistakable green flag.
That flag, all his instincts told him, surely meant safety. For all he knew, it was the HQ. He tried to imagine how the underground tunnels twisted, but there was no way he could connect them with the routes on the surface. Well, it was Rickard’s own mother, and Rickard worked at the HQ, it was elementary logic. The flag was their destination, and the path marked with the thin line was their delivery route. If he could only find it.
The map was still curious. How had he never seen one? Maybe it was because he never needed one, as he operated underground. Yes, he knew the tunnels inside out, and those working on the surface needed the same knowledge of the safe routes. Peter had been right, there were safe routes above ground level. Had he known about those, Peter might have lived. He would definitely mention this to Rickard when he got back. Underground operators should be trained on surface routes as well.
He looked up at the sky and tried to guess the time from the sun’s position. He was never really good at that, but sunrise happened not too long ago so the sun must still have been marking east. So they were at the eastern patch of woods, just off the main road. According to the map, and judging by how far they must have gotten, moving north would make sure they would cross the footpath. If they didn’t find landmines on the way, of course.
He checked the gun in his belt. It was quite securely held but too heavy and uncomfortable. He tried not to pay any more attention to it and started walking with tentative steps, sweeping the forest floor with his feet as he went. The African followed him closely.
