by Vince Milam
“Mile and a half. Let’s move,” I said, and held a hand for Abbie. She pulled herself up, returned the water bottle. Lips tight, she focused on my backside. Her anchor point leading out of this mess.
“Thirty minutes, Abbie. Not far,” I said, and addressed my teammates. “We’ll cross a primary trail ahead. Let’s take it. Don’t think our position is a mystery at the moment.”
We remained in formation, Catch trailing, and traversed two small rises. A gold camp thoroughfare appeared. Mud, ruts, sharp stubs of hacked small trees and bushes. And relative open space. It led to the native village and usual river landing. We’d bypass the area and skirt south toward the Sally and our incursion point. But for now it was clear sailing and our pace increased.
“Got a welcome committee of three now.” Catch’s radioed words upped the anxiety. What were they planning?
“Location?” I asked.
“The original dude still trails. Two more on our left.”
I alternated focus between the trail—the hacked small trunk stubs would trip and injure—and signs of movement among shadowed green jungle. Nada, nothing.
“You see anything, Bo?”
“Maybe.”
Not the best answer, but better than I was doing. A hundred yards farther I spotted him. He stood thirty yards uphill and leaned on head-high bow and arrows. The sole of one bare foot rested on the inside knee of the opposite leg. Survey tape, white and red, wrapped around his left upper arm. Dark feathers decorated his hair. He stared, unmoving.
“Okay. Got one standing left.”
“Yeah, well, that would make four,” Catch said. “These other three ain’t standing around.”
Village and river landing right, hunting warriors left. Move. Keep moving south and make the Sally. Three hundred yards later I led us off the trail when it curved west, toward the village. One more mile. No trail, but at least away from the village and God knows how many more tribal warriors.
Then I heard the lying, cheating, command-ignoring SOB. Babe. His voice carried, screaming at his customers. He’d ignored my order to stay, wait, and had clearly started up his tub and moved it upriver. Conduct a little upstream business. And now an entire village stood between us and our goal.
We huddled, the situation assessed. One option stood clear—march through them, locked, loaded, and prepared. Run toward the Sally if battle started. I remembered Luke’s words. They’d killed me, yet I walked. Case carried special mojo.
“All right. I lead. Abbie glued behind me. Catch, Bo—either side of Abbie a half step back. Shape of a spearhead.”
“A symbolic configuration,” Bo said. “Nice touch.”
“When we get to the boat, can I shoot Babe?” Catch asked.
“They attribute me with special powers. Stay close. Neutral expressions.”
And so we strode toward the thatched huts and cooking fires. Nearest us, on four-foot-high stilts, the Longhouse. The tribal gathering place and site of village decisions, worship, and declarations of war. At the base of the Longhouse stairs, a special log. It exhibited carved pictographs, symbols, signs.
And the heads of five Russians. We passed within four paces of the display.
“Don’t stare at the heads,” I said. “It may offend them or some damn thing.”
Villagers, more warriors, kids. They stared, neither friendly nor hostile. We looked a sight, no doubt, and worthy of a stare. Still, hair stood at the back of my neck, the village silent except for the cry of a baby. Cook fires smoked and smoldered, the village earth tramped clean and hard. The urge to dash, strong. But it may have triggered an unwanted reaction. So we strolled, an even pace, past huts and fires and suspended daily life of the villagers. And came out the other side.
Babe continued yelling at a collection of customers at the base of his rickety gangplank. He stopped and cocked his head as we approached.
“Well. Ya grabbed a sheila, did ya?” He referenced Abbie.
We edged past the assembled villagers. Catch untied the boat’s shore line, and we climbed onboard.
“Give me a while yet, mates. Bit of business to transact.”
Without a word spoken, Catch fired the engine, slammed the throttle in reverse, and swung us into the current. The gangplank fell into the river and Babe screamed again.
“Bugger off, ya bastid! She’s my vessel!”
I guided Abbie toward the back deck. We settled on a bench. Made it. Made it back, alive, with Abbie. A shore shot from a Spetsnaz operator still a possibility, but likelihood decreased with every quarter mile of river we floated down. Besides, the five decapitated plus the five to seven that attacked us from their riverboat cut their available numbers. Big-time.
I took her hand and endeavored a form of solace or empathy or uplift. Flying blind—I held no experience with such matters. She stared at the deck, dripped sweat with the rest of us. Jungle flowed past as Bo stripped off his battle vest and shirt. We required first aid. But now, for a few minutes, a chance to settle, celebrate, and regain a semblance of normalcy. And wrap Abbie in the same. I just didn’t know how.
“I’ve got paying customers on this river. It’s only fair!” Babe changed tactics and now wheedled and whined inside the wheelhouse. “A few stops, mate. All I’m asking. A reasonable negotiation.”
The wheelhouse rear window framed the negotiation process. Catch pulled his .45 pistol and blew a bit of left ear tip off Babe. Abbie flinched but didn’t raise her eyes.
Our boat driver took it in amazing stride. An initial yelp, then grubby fingers worked the new ear alteration. A fair amount of blood, stopped when Babe snatched a roll of toilet paper off the wheelhouse counter and applied pressure with a wadded handful.
“Fair dinkum,” he said, subdued. “You’re upset. Understood. Now let me drive my own bloody boat.”
Catch explained rules of the road, life, and personal marksmanship regarding particular body parts, then joined us on the back deck.
“Wash up, dress these wounds again, and prep for round two,” he said. “The bounty.”
The local head Russian spy, Sokolov, hadn’t entered my mind. I was still recovering from round one. Relief. Relief and thankfulness and an emotional draining as adrenaline lowered and a glow of satisfaction settled. Satisfaction tempered with a strong concern for Abbie. Concern and a pull to do something. Fix things. I could well imagine what she’d suffered at the hands of those thirty-plus terrorists, but a look forward was the lone path I’d address. I didn’t possess the skills for addressing her recent past. Other than levying justice. And that was taken care of.
Bo groaned as he knelt at Abbie’s feet and laid a forearm across one of her knees. He used the other hand and lifted her chin, her face. He smiled. And talked toiletries.
“Our large and uncivilized partner mentioned a bath. Which he sorely needs. But we get to go first. You and I. A bucket bath.”
Her eyebrows furrowed.
“I have some nice botanicals in my rucksack. A fine bodywash. Does wonders.”
“Bath?”
“You’ll love the stuff. Eucalyptus. It refreshes, and keeps this divine countenance shipshape.” He lifted his own chin with fingertips, pursed lips, and turned his head in profile. “Confirming evidence or what?”
A half smile. A solid start. Bo Dickerson pulled her upright. Instructed us to move one of the back benches against the stern railing. Find a clean bucket. Fetch the saltshaker—it turned out we’d each collected several more leeches. And ransack Babe’s inventory. Deliver a clean T-shirt and shorts. For Abbie.
I hope to live a long life. But I’ll never forget the sight of Bo and Abbie, naked and backs toward us, bathing on the back deck of the Sally. The river’s microclimate cut the heat, the old boat plowed downstream, and bright birds crossed overhead. A light breeze found channel in the river’s course.
He dipped river water and poured it slow and easy over them both. Squeezed bodywash into her hands, then into his own. Led by example, scrubbed all over
. When she stalled, stood still, he worked the soap into her short hair and rubbed with tenderness. Soft language about comparative qualities of various botanical toiletries. He explained how Catch and I lacked sufficient appreciation for such finer things in life. And added a long litany of our other deficiencies. Life began to return in Abbie Rice. She even laughed, once. While crimson blood drew thin, bright pathways down my bathing brother’s backside.
Chapter 41
We required serious medical care. Field dressings and adrenaline had limits. The reality of our physical situation tempered plans for dealing with Sokolov. We gathered at the back deck and discussed options.
“His operators are wiped out,” I said. “Can’t be but one or two left. If any.”
“He’ll haul ass,” Catch said. “Let’s get him before he does.”
“And our asses require hauling to a hospital. Limits our ground time.”
We had bathed, dressed wounds, and stopped the bleeding, again. Changed clothes. And reloaded our weapons. Abbie wore flip-flops, cheap shorts, and a cheaper T-shirt. But they were clean and dry. A bottle of acetaminophen was passed around, a helluva lot more than the recommended dose swallowed.
Catch firewalled the Sally’s throttle, reducing downriver trip time. Babe attempted, once, an easing off of the strained engine. He wouldn’t try a second time. A couple more hours and we’d hit the docks. Phase two. Our own personal reward. Abbie hung back at the edge of our conversation, pensive.
“He’s either at the hotel or airport,” I said. “Unless he’s already left.”
“He’s still there,” Bo said. “Too much invested. He’ll hang around, salvage what he can. Human nature.”
“To a point. But word will filter out. He’s isolated.”
Bo had a legitimate perspective, and Sokolov—his people eliminated—may not have known the outcome of our upriver battle. But at some point he’d cut and run. And with the clock ticking, medical care nudged near the task of locating the bastard.
“Let’s say we do find him,” Bo said. “And isolate him. Zero sum, baby.”
Zero sum. Winner and loser. Sokolov the loser.
“What if he doesn’t know who the funding source is?” I asked. “Legitimately doesn’t know?”
“Then he’d better come up with a damn good lie,” Catch said.
Denial meant death. Speak or die. And I didn’t have a problem with that. The SOB had taken Abbie hostage and handed her to JI. Posted my bounty for JI’s benefit. Sent a riverboat full of operators to kill the three of us. And placed more operators around JI’s camp as insurance. Screw him.
“He kidnapped me.”
We turned and stared toward Abbie.
“Him and his henchmen.”
“We figured as much,” I said, soft and supporting.
Catch stretched an arm and gripped her knee.
“Got it,” he said. “We’ve got it.”
No point verbalizing the point further. The risk of a conversation devolving into her capture and abuse led down torturous paths. And we didn’t own the wherewithal to smooth that road.
I found the spook pilot’s card with the handwritten number. There was decent satellite connectivity as we wound and twisted our way downriver. I dialed. It rang twice.
First the sound of prop engines, then his voice. “ETA Kiunga one hour.”
He hung up. The Port Moresby to Kiunga flight was two hours. They’d already left. It took a second or two as the physical and psychological toll pinballed my thought processes. But just a second or two. Over my left shoulder, I stared skyward. Howdy, folks.
One of the Company’s big birds in the sky. Satellite surveillance. They’d moved a bird over our operational area. Low, moving clouds obscured full-time visibility, and JI’s camp held too many trees for a downward view. But as we cruised the open river channel, they could take a good gander when clouds cleared. And observe the three of us. With Abbie. So Langley had kicked off an action plan.
The Company wouldn’t possess the sole bird peering down. The Russians would have the same view. Sokolov would have received intel on the upriver outcome. And planned a quick exit.
Unwritten clandestine rules, violated. The Russians gambled, lost. And they’d pay. A violent shadow war of retribution and redefined lines ramped up as we chugged downriver. I didn’t understand the rules and wondered at the folly of the entire endeavor. But Sokolov presented an opportunity. A last gasp for this violent excursion.
“Our plane,” I informed Catch and Bo. “ETA Kiunga one hour.” I shot another glance skyward for their benefit. Catch bent back and extended a middle finger toward the skies.
“I fear they won’t capture my best side,” Bo said. “I hold more allure up close.”
My phone rang. Marilyn Townsend. Well, that didn’t take long. As always, she waited for me.
“Director.”
“Well done, Mr. Lee. Well done, you and your compatriots.”
“We require serious medical attention. All of us.”
“It has been arranged. Professional care is two and a half hours from your first destination. Four and a half hours total travel time. Is your group capable of surviving this time frame?”
A hint of empathy, a small whiff. Not surprising she kept location names from the conversation. First Port Moresby. Then two-and-a-half-hour flight time for a top-notch hospital. Brisbane, Australia, the high-odds destination.
Arranged. Everything freakin’ arranged, tidy, neat. Not a single thing tidy or neat about the last six hours, Marilyn. No, ma’am. Lots of killing, lots of blood, a brave warrior dead. And some of the blood was ours, still leaking. Hammered pawns on the back deck of the Sally. Hammered pawns on your chessboard, Marilyn Townsend.
“Yeah. We’re capable.”
“I’d appreciate speaking with Case Officer Rice.”
“How many opposition operators left?”
A dead pause. She expected an Abbie handoff. Too damn bad. We required intel about Sokolov’s defenses. A tight window of opportunity, unless he’d already split.
“Unknown. Perhaps none.”
“Love those unknowns, Director.”
Silence.
“And I’d like to bet on the perhaps but can’t afford it. Not down here where the peasants play.”
A shorter pause, and she said, “I cannot overstate how much we appreciate your efforts. And those of your friends. Now kindly hand your device to Case Officer Rice.”
I did. And excused my personal snark. The thigh throbbed and the rib wound bit, hard. The arrow wound, still fresh, barked its displeasure as well. My brothers bled, wounded. Because I’d asked them to join me. Asked them to dive into the morass of spook central. And Luke gone. Killed. No. No apologies for the attitude, Marilyn.
“No, ma’am.” Abbie’s voice carried, imbued with fog and unreality and a touch of recovery. “I understand. No issues.”
I held hope the director provided a semblance of soothing words for her case officer. Heaven knew she deserved them.
“Not a problem. Thank you, Director.” She ended the call and handed me the phone.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine.” She returned to a back-deck bench and stared at passing jungle.
I took solace knowing the Company would provide her excellent medical and psychological help. She wouldn’t return to the field during her remaining days with the Company. A desk job until retirement. She’d quit before then. Maybe not this year, or next. But it would happen.
I sidled alongside Bo. He sat on the foredeck, first in, our spearhead. He hurt, bad. Nostrils flared, he fought back the pain.
“So where have you been holed up?” I asked. “After you left Portland?”
“Oz.”
“Australia?”
“Good people. Good land. Miles of arid turf.” Bo smiled. “It has a feel, mi amigo.”
“How are you getting around?”
“BMW.”
“What model?”
�
��Motorcycle.”
“Where you keeping your hammock?” Bo traveled light, material possessions few. But his rucksack alone was substantial. His other accoutrements, including his hammock, would fill another rucksack.
“Sidecar.”
An easy picture. Bo blasting along a lonely road in the arid outback. Goggles on, red hair flying. The motorcycle’s sidecar full.
“Makes sense.” We sat with comfortable silence as river and world and life passed by. He’d adjust his position, attempt easing the pain.
“I’m sorry, Bo. So damn sorry.” It welled from deep within. I didn’t deserve friends like this. Blood brothers so tight, indomitable.
He shifted again, gave a light shoulder bump. “A poor statement, goober boy. Not acceptable. We choose how to live. And if we’re lucky, how to die. Allow the cosmos reign, but hand on the rudder as best we can.”
I fought back tears. Aftershock, mental gymnastics, pain—and an awareness we’d dock before long. Knife between teeth and do it again. With Bo and Catch. Man, I didn’t deserve them.
Thirty minutes before Kiunga, I visited the wheelhouse. The little roo accepted a scratch behind the ear and hopped back below the table. Babe lit another motrus; a ball of betel nut powder and lime bulged a cheek. He stank, as always, but air movement through open windows made a short-term visit possible.
“Could be more action at the docks,” I said. If any Russian operators remained, the docks would present a prime opportunity for payback.
“Just don’t shoot my old girl.”
“Ease in. If firing starts, maneuver against the docks. We’re not going any farther downriver. We’re through running.”
He farted. “It’ll be over soon.”
“What will be?” I’d spent time enough with him to catch a Babe tangent.
“The entire bloody mess. Gold. Guns. All these wankers on my river.”
“You don’t think they’ll find gold?”
