by Vince Milam
“Not where they’re looking.” He chuckled.
A rabbit hole or truth pill or BS—I bordered on leaving it at that. Behind, Catch rummaged through the weapons container and prepped for battle. He laid the final rocket launcher on a bench. In front of us, Bo held his face toward the sun, smiling. He’d escaped the moment, the pain.
I bit. “How would you know, Babe?”
“Oh, there’s gold upriver, mate. I reckon! But not there.” He cackled, took a side step, and spit bright-red spittle into the river.
“You transported the geologist. You know where the gold find is.” A statement, clear now. His boat the obvious choice when the geologist required river travel from the then-sleepy town of Kiunga. He knew. The crazy bastard knew and held something back.
“What I didn’t know was those bloody phones worked here.” He shook his head and puffed the motrus.
The geologist owned a satellite phone. He’d announced the find back to headquarters. Called from the Sally. And disappeared.
“What happened to the geologist?”
Babe paused. A large wad of toilet paper remained at the top of his ear, stained red, the blood now congealed. “Unfortunate accident.”
He hummed a bit and swung his hips side to side. Smiled bright-red teeth. Pleased, oh so pleased with himself. He had sent everyone on a wild goose chase. Claimed he knew the geologist’s discovery spot. While the true gold discovery, miles away, remained with him. The crazy SOB.
“Why’d you do it?”
He didn’t hesitate an answer. “Because of what you see now! She was once a nice, quiet town!” He pointed ahead, toward Kiunga. “And I worked this river alone. None of these bastids roaring up and down my river. Disturbing my commerce.”
Disturbing his kingdom. The crazy SOB knew, but the secret would die with him. Give it a few more weeks and the mining interests would pull stakes. Flock to the next spot on the map. Bolivia, Sierra Leone, Sri Lanka. They came up short in PNG, but there was always the next discovery. The next pot of gold. And if human elements of high interest participated—terrorist groups, drug runners, revolutionaries—the spooks would flock again. But Babe would have his world back. Unmolested, tucked away.
The adventure’s absurdity never settled, metastasized. It draped, and with a bitter shrug it fell from my shoulders. Tucked away inside Chambers’ “strange world” box, locked and discarded. But Abbie was here—and satisfaction with her rescue helped salve other hurts. And we had a shot at the bounty sponsor’s identity. A long shot, maybe, but real and now, with the last twenty-four hours behind us.
Chapter 42
Before the final river turn that would bring the docks into sight, raucous noises sounded. Trucks honked, men yelled, the low grumble of diesel-engine boats and barges rippled across water. Gold fever maintained, riches for the taking. Man, were they set up for disappointment.
Bo huddled under the prow, armed and ready. Catch stood watch along the wheelhouse. Abbie was asked to sit on the back deck, out of sight. She didn’t argue. But prior to taking a protective seat, she rummaged through the weapons container and pulled a spare .45 pistol. Fine, and good for her.
“Sniper turf,” Catch said as he scanned the approaching docks. “And you’re target number one.”
“Don’t see threats.” The docks showed no sign of hostile forces. Billy Wilson stood alongside a stack of crated canned goods and waved our way.
“That’s the whole point of snipers, dumbass,” Catch said. “You don’t see them. Get your butt on the river side of the wheelhouse.”
Point taken. Babe eased alongside an empty pier and parked the Sally. Men moved, cussed, sweated. They loaded equipment and supplies, bartered, laughed. No Spetsnaz. Wilson approached as Babe performed his own tie-up duties. The three of us weren’t taking any fingers off triggers.
“Got a ride for you,” Wilson said. “A ride to the airport.” He pointed toward a small van, well used.
Not a person—bosses or workers—blinked an eye at our arrival. Gold fever, with certain anomalies expected and overlooked.
“Carry this container,” I told Wilson, a head nod toward our depleted stash of weapons and ammo. “Go get in the vehicle.”
“I think we should . . .”
I cut him off. “Do what I tell you. Now.”
He did. I’d like to say we departed the Sally and strolled badass across the creosote timber. But we sucked wind and winced climbing over the rail. Two of us limped toward the vehicle. Still, we remained prepared for a fight should it appear. And we’d kick ass if it did.
No goodbyes, no final words with Babe. Nothing more than a last stare, expressionless. Heart of darkness, Babe. Can’t say I’d miss you.
Wilson eased off the muddy flat area that served as a staging point for vehicles and drove us into Kiunga. I rode shotgun, although Catch complained about my exposure. Abbie sat between Catch and Bo.
“Moved several trucks earlier. For you-know-who,” Wilson said.
“Moved trucks?”
“Yes. For the pilots. They asked me to deliver several at the airport.”
Whatever. Pilots or not, they were still spooks and their behavior nothing but white noise for our current mission.
“Stop by the hotel,” I said. If still in town, Sokolov would hole up there.
“I’ve been instructed. The airport. Straight away,” Wilson said. “Very specific instructions. How are you, miss?”
He smiled in the rearview mirror toward Abbie. She remained silent.
“The hotel,” I repeated. “Now.”
“Specific instructions. Very. Don’t want any trouble.”
Wilson’s head snapped forward. A motion created when the muzzle of Catch’s .45 slammed against the back of his head.
“What do your instructions say now, asshat?” Catch asked.
“Look! Look, mate! A plane and two pilots are waiting for you. Bring them here, they said. Straight away!”
“Hotel, Wilson. You seen Sokolov there?” I asked. “And don’t lie. Bad things will happen if you lie.”
“He’s at the airport! Why didn’t you just ask? He’s at the airport.”
I turned as best I could, grunted, and shared stares with Bo and Catch. Questioning stares. Catch removed his .45 from Wilson’s head.
“New instructions. Take us to the airport.”
“I’ve been sayin’ . . .”
“Shut up, Wilson. This is strange, guys.” I waited for a response. None came. “You really think the Company would wrap him with a bow and present him? For us?”
The two continued scanning, watched for threats. The barrels of their weapons lay across the vehicle window openings.
“Damn,” Catch said. “Left the rocket launcher on the old tub.”
“Could we get a little focus here, people? Abbie, any thoughts?”
She shrugged, looking tiny and vulnerable squeezed between the two ex-Delta members. The .45 dangled from her hands.
“Our target, isolated. The path, clear,” Bo said. “Let us stride, resolute.”
His face showed signs of strain, pain, and a steel commitment to see it through.
“I agree with hippie boy. The Russki is on high ground. Doesn’t matter who treed him.”
It damn sure mattered to me. Bo and Catch had retired, truly retired. They hadn’t rubbed shoulders with Spookville in years. But the current situation rang discordant. A gut feel based on past experience. Or paranoia.
Wilson kept his mouth shut and drove, admonished twice for hitting potholes. The impact sent jolts of pain through me and, without doubt, both Bo and Catch. We wove through Kiunga, streets busy. The aroma of unwashed bodies, jungle funk, and vehicle exhaust passed. We hit the half-mile road leading toward the airport.
The Company prop plane sat parked near the tin shed. Three substantial trucks had been placed at equal intervals along the narrow runway. The Kiunga airport was closed for business. Alongside the shed, Company-issued pistols drawn, the two pilots.
And one stoic, defiant FSB agent. Sokolov.
Wilson killed the engine, ran around, and opened the sliding door. Hauled the weapons cache onto the ground. He clearly viewed the entire scene as cool, James Bondish. The four of us climbed out, cautious.
“Drive back to town,” a pilot ordered Wilson. “Come get your trucks in an hour.”
“Perhaps you, Lee, can talk some sense into these people,” Sokolov said. “This is madness. Utter madness.”
“Not telling you again,” the pilot said to Wilson. “Go.”
Wilson, petulant, drove away. The rattle of the old van faded.
“I’m an employee of the Strategic Resource Group,” Sokolov said. “SRG. A Russian corporation. You have no right to hold me.”
“You people got this?” the pilot asked the three of us.
“Yeah,” I said. “We got it.”
Catch circled us, used a foot and opened the tin shed door. Stuck his head in and announced, “This will do.”
The two pilots hoofed it toward the distant runway-parked trucks. A flock of birds flew, flared, and circled over a nearby muddy field, hacked from jungle. Sweat dripped, the pre-evening heat relief not yet arrived.
“Absolutely no right. I had a flight scheduled. It was prevented from landing.”
“Shut up, Sokolov,” I said.
Bo shoved his assault rifle into the Russian’s back. “We require a candid Q and A. With quick and honest responses. Savvy?” He rammed the weapon into Sokolov’s back again, and forced him toward the shed’s door.
“You know the game, Lee.” Sokolov pressed a hand against both sides of the door opening. “And this is out of bounds! You know it!”
Catch ripped his hands off the doorjamb; Bo finished pushing him inside. The entire setting was too unnatural, too scripted. An orchestrated play. The pilots walked long distances toward the trucks. Left us with the Russian and the empty shed. My gut roiled.
I stepped inside. Sacks of rice, stacked. A flimsy table. Canned goods, boxes of nails. Oppressive heat, musty smells, the soft scamper of mice, hidden. Sokolov held out his hands. Stop. Stop this madness.
Abbie brushed past me, silent. Then it hit. Landed like a collapsed building. We were on stage. Satellite imagery, both US and Russian, watched this vignette play out. Pilots—Company employees—distanced themselves from the scene. Abbie’s role and responsibilities detailed during Marilyn Townsend’s call. With Bo, Catch, and I the bit players, providing the Company cover.
“Abbie!”
She continued past me, raised her arm, and blew Sokolov’s brains against the tin wall.
“Shit!” Catch yelled.
She turned, dropped the .45 on a pile of rice sacks, and walked out. She stared into the big lost and never made eye contact with me. We stood silent, absorbed in the wasted, futile moment. Ears rang from the gun blast, sweat dripped, possible answers dead at our feet.
“I believe proper protocol for these situations,” Bo said, “is to ask questions first, then shoot. The Company may have a glitch in their training process.”
I couldn’t move. The unmitigated hell of fighting our way upriver, fighting JI, losing Luke. Severe wounds salved with the knowledge we might, at last, find who paid for the bounty. Gone. All of it. Gone.
Catch eased past me, paused. “Let’s saddle up. I may actually need stitches.” He patted my back, pocketed Abbie’s pistol, and left. I turned as he walked toward the plane. Abbie had already boarded. Two of the trucks were driven off the runway into the muck and mire. One pilot returned, the other walked toward the final truck.
“She rolls, tumbles, creaks, and groans, my brother.” Bo placed a hand on my arm. “The big enchilada.”
Sokolov lay splayed on the dirt floor as blood and brain matter slid down the corrugated tin wall. And Case Lee, played again. Played like a freakin’ drum.
“Saved your friend,” Bo continued, delivering a gentle shove toward the shed’s opening. “A solid adventure. Solid. Weights and measures, my Georgia peach. Weights and measures.”
Bo and a pilot boarded. The plane’s engines fired. A final stare toward the overhead audiences. Both groups would flick off the satellite feed in their respective conference rooms, discuss Spookville’s latest dramatic play. Dissect its finer points—one side speculating on who offed Sokolov—and make plans for the next grand production.
Catch took Sokolov’s death in stride. An event, finished. Move on. Bo wrapped it with his cosmic view. Part of a larger picture. I lacked either perspective.
The second pilot passed, headed for the plane. “Let’s go,” he said over the prop noise, Ray-Bans and Company strut on full display. “Jet waiting at Moresby. We’re getting you medical help.” He climbed the three steps and crawled into the copilot seat.
Yeah, jack. Help. Get us help. Maybe help me understand the black hole in my gut. Help explain why now—while I grapple with death and rescue and survival—the entire damn thing rings so, so hollow.
One last glance above, past the satellites, and headshake wonderment. What a world. Oh, it rolls and tumbles, Bo. Yes it does. And sometimes it circles the drain.
Epilogue
I slathered on the best possible medicine. Cruised the Ditch while the Ace of Spades rumbled its siren song. CC occupied a wheelhouse stool alongside me. Tinker Juarez climbed a supply box pressed against the side and hung his chin on the top railing, capturing scents. Isle of Palms, Dewees Island. Sewee Bay and a cut-through to Bull Harbor. Salt grass marsh, warm breeze, and silent glory.
“Tinker Juarez likes this,” she said.
“Me too. You thirsty?”
“No. I’m happy.”
“Me too.”
A top-notch Brisbane hospital had sewed and patched us, overnight stay recommendations declined. We had exited through the facility’s sliding doors, where another spook greeted us with a large manila envelope. Abbie stood near a parked sedan and stared at the ground.
“Tickets. First class,” he said.
We wouldn’t take the Company’s jet home. Reserved for Abbie. Fine. I approached her while Catch and Bo held back.
“Tell me how you’re doing,” I said. “You look good.”
Eyes questioned, unsure, but a half smile and a step closer. She wrapped her arms around me. I flinched—the rib wound wouldn’t take much pressure.
“Sorry.”
“No worries.” I hugged back, a soft squeeze.
“Thank you. I don’t know what else to say. Except you saved me. You, and Bo, and Catch. Thank you.”
“We on for that bottle of wine next time I’m in DC? With your partner?”
“Sure.” She spoke into my shoulder, voice muffled. I held serious doubts we’d meet again. I represented a past she’d soon discard. A slow release, gentle rub of my cheek, and she climbed into the sedan. Abbie Rice would follow her own rocky road.
CC pointed out wonders. A tug and barge pushed along the Ditch, fish splashed, and shore birds on stilted legs fast-danced away as we passed.
“Are they scared of us?” CC asked.
“Probably a little nervous.”
“I get nervous. Sometimes.”
“What about?”
“Things.”
“Things like burgers and fries? Because I was headed into McClellanville for burgers and fries.”
She laughed, sparkling. “I don’t get nervous about burgers, Case! Or fries.”
“Good, good. Just checking.”
She slid off the stool and leaned against me, a hand around my waist.
We’d said goodbye to Bo at the Brisbane airport. The Company hadn’t known his point of origin, so he’d purchased his own ticket. Alice Springs, where his motorcycle, sidecar, and hammock waited.
“So the whole On the Road thing can’t last long,” I said. “You like to get situated. Park.”
“Maybe I’ve changed.”
“What are the odds,” Catch said, shaking his head.
“Maybe you could dry out here for a while
and then join me on the Ace. Get situated. And cruise the Ditch. Best of both worlds.”
“One world. A boundless arc filled with possibilities. Possibilities and life. And love lost and love yet found.” Uttered with the utmost seriousness.
“Willa misses you,” Catch said. “She digs it when you say that crap.”
“And I miss her. You may remind her we are still bound spiritually. Ask her to listen.”
“The van is still up the tree. Gonna leave it there.”
“Another totem.”
“Another way of letting you know you’re always welcome.”
“And answer your phone,” I said. “And answer text messages.”
Bo hefted his rucksack. A group hug, “take care’s” exchanged, and he limped away. Bo Dickerson turned five shuffled steps later and locked eyes.
“I always answer, my brother.” A wink, a wide smile, and eyes glistened with wild mirth. “Always.”
I missed him before he disappeared in the crowd.
Back stateside, I’d touched base with the Clubhouse. A sense of obligation but no desire for connectivity. Burned so badly by that world, I also burned mental bridges. Because the Kiunga airport final scene held another possibility. The Company—Marilyn Townsend—knew full well what we wanted from Sokolov. And maybe, just maybe, they didn’t want us finding an answer. Leverage for the future.
The Clubhouse message, a small brush with the clandestine universe, fed finality.
Back. All well. Over and done.
A slice of intent for Jules. No more. No more wading those waters. I would move forward, accept staid gigs only. Private investigator stuff, low key. Twenty-four hours later, I heard back.
It’s never over, dear boy. And it’s never done.
Thank you for reading The New Guinea Job!
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