by Chris Allen
“Fuck it!” Lundt stormed toward Turner. “I can’t believe I’ve let you and that weasel Cornell live as long as I have.”
Turner said nothing, just kept mopping away the perspiration, fidgeting.
“How long have we got?” queried Lundt, flicking his still-burning cigarette at Turner.
“Two days, maybe three.” Turner squirmed as the butt struck his shirt. “It depends on how well the talks go with the British Government. There’s something else.”
“What?” asked Lundt.
Swallowing some rising bile in the back of his throat, Turner answered, “Two people arrived here on the UN shuttle from London this morning.”
CHAPTER 14
With the usual lack of ceremony that accompanies the arrival of any military transport aircraft, the UN Hercules made its landing at Cullentown Airport.
As the big plane lumbered toward the terminal, Morgan’s mind turned to what he might confront in tracking down whoever was behind the rebels. The strength of his cover as an evacuation specialist was his ticket in, but success was dependent on being accepted into the center of the Chiltonford operation. Despite working with Ashcroft-James to engineer Morgan’s appointment to Chiltonford, General Davenport had serious misgivings about relying on people outside of Intrepid. Morgan’s cover story would reflect his actual military service record, rather than risking exposure with a fake résumé. On this occasion, Morgan would also stick to his own name. Soldiers, especially experienced ex-soldiers, are notoriously suspicious people, and Morgan knew he would have to work hard to earn their trust. Davenport’s parting advice had been cryptic but simple: “Keep your powder dry.”
In recent weeks, the scale of atrocities committed by rebels in the remote areas of Malfajiri had intensified, carried out with impunity, with the local military powerless to stop them – or worse, complicit. As for the rebel leader, Baptiste, a number of other senior Malfajiri army officers were known to have broken ranks and aligned with him. They had been identified as now playing key roles within Baptiste’s rebel network. They were growing stronger and establishing greater control over the population by force, powered by the gunrunners with their pipeline to US military supplies. The weapons and equipment were rolling in, feeding the terror campaign. Underestimating the enemy was something a soldier could ill-afford to do. Morgan would not be making that mistake.
Still troubled by his dream, Morgan was shunted from his thoughts by the sudden halt of the C-130 as it came to a stop. Minutes later, he stepped out into a fierce, dry blast of heat, a feature of Cullentown. The intensity of activity around the airport was chaotic. Aircraft, military and civilian, fixed-wing and rotary, were taking off, landing or being unloaded. Forklifts, trucks, beasts of burden and men were in constant motion. Scattered throughout it all, a company of Malfajirian Army conscripts, with automatic rifles draped lazily across their chests, tried to maintain the pretense of a security force. Morgan knew he was at more risk of being shot by accident than for any real reason. He searched the small cluster of faces gathered at the edge of the runway closest to his aircraft.
“You must be Morgan,” a voice called out from somewhere behind him as he wrestled his field pack and tattered army echelon bag from a cargo pallet. “Mike Fredericks.”
With the RR T56 engines of the Hercules still turning, and a hot wind whipping about them, Morgan struggled to catch the welcome, but did recognize the light brown, close-cropped hair and broad, toothy grin from the dossier he’d seen before leaving London. Lieutenant Colonel Michael Fredericks, retired, ex-Canadian Airborne Regiment and Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. He’d been instrumental in the formation of the Canadian Special Operations Regiment and, when not selected to command it, he left the army and went private, serving with a couple of the major outfits in Iraq and Afghanistan before joining Chiltonford six months ago as their lead man in Malfajiri. There was nothing on record to indicate that Fredericks was anything other than the professional that his background suggested.
“G’day, Mike. Good to meet you,” Morgan yelled over the din of background aircraft noise. Fredericks grabbed Morgan’s field pack, hoisting it over his shoulder as they moved off the tarmac. Morgan smiled and shook Fredericks’s offered hand firmly. “Alex Morgan. Thanks for coming out to get me.”
“Welcome to the shithole, bud,” said Fredericks without humor, waving his arm in a mock gesture of grand presentation. “What do you think so far?”
“I’ll let you know,” said Morgan.
“It’s no secret, things are getting worse by the day, or the hour if you watch close enough. The locals who are able to are leaving the city in droves to hide out in the mountains. They know better than anyone that it’s only a matter of time before Baptiste makes his move against the president. Anyhow, I’ll bring you up to speed on everything once we get to the mine site at Pallarup.”
“Understood,” Morgan replied with a nod, relieved to be finally on the ground. Pallarup, the Malfajiri headquarters of Alga Creek Mining and Chiltonford, was where he needed to be, and the sooner the better. “So, what’s next?”
“Well, we’ve just got one more passenger to collect and then—” Fredericks became distracted and his eyes moved beyond Morgan, back toward the aircraft. “That’s got to be her. I sure hope so, anyway. Jesus, she’s gorgeous!”
A woman was stepping away from the cargo pallet with one of the young local boys shouldering her bulging, brightly coloured field pack. It looked new. Morgan had noticed her on the plane, but as she’d been sitting well forward of him, he hadn’t had much of a chance to actually see her. She was about 5 feet 6 or 7 inches, he thought. She was clearly fit yet refreshingly curvy, and moved with confidence and purpose. Her hair was a dusty blond and fell to her shoulders in a very natural, unpretentious style. She wore what appeared to be good quality, well-worn hiking boots, a pair of tight-fitting beige cargo pants and a loose-fitting, off-white military-style shirt with sleeves rolled halfway along tanned forearms. It was unbuttoned almost to the waist, with a khaki singlet stretched tightly across the swell of her breasts and tucked into a thick brown leather belt. Dressed for Africa by Ralph Lauren, he thought. As she moved closer to them, Morgan could see that her eyes were the most mesmerising sky blue.
Fredericks was right, she was definitely gorgeous, but who the hell was she?
“You must be Michael?” she began, and shook Fredericks’s hand.
“Call me Mike.” Fredericks was almost tripping over himself, Morgan noted with a smile. “Welcome to Malfajiri, Miss Halls. This is our evacuation expert just in from London, too.”
She turned to him with confidence and, looking straight into his eyes, offered her hand. “Hello. Saw you on the plane.” Morgan closed a strong hand around hers. Her guard seemed to come up. “I’m here with the ICRC, the Red Cross,” she said uncomfortably. “Arena Halls. Everybody calls me Ari.”
“Hello, Ari. Alex Morgan. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m sorry to keep you both waiting. First on, last off scenario, I’m afraid. Noisy flight, too. Those earplug thingummys didn’t help at all.”
“The joys of flying by Herc,” said Morgan, thinking she might be a bit of a princess. “No creature comforts.”
“So I gathered, and don’t ask me about the dreams I was having,” she added, almost to herself. Morgan thought of the dream he’d had in flight and realized they’d both arrived with excess baggage. He wondered what hers was.
“You taking an anti-malarial?” Morgan asked mechanically.
“Well, yes. Yes, I am. It’s ‘M’ something?”
“Mefloquine?” offered Fredericks. When she nodded, he said, “Makes sense. It affects people differently – anxiety, hallucinations and so on. Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up with something else from the medicine cabinet.” He smiled mischievously.
Fredericks returned Morgan’s pack to him with a wink, and relieved the young boy of Ari’s gear, leading them toward the far end of the tarmac. A
ri thanked the boy, who looked like he didn’t want to leave her, but eventually ran back to his duties with the other boys unloading the plane.
“Well, I’d like to welcome you both properly over a beer, but the Cullentown pub’s not exactly what you’d call foreigner friendly right now,” Fredericks said good-humoredly, raising his voice over the howl of competing aircraft engines. “Best we go straight to the mine site at Pallarup. That Puma over there’s ours.”
Fredericks pointed to the dark green profile of a large military-spec helicopter with rotors whirling, ready to fly, on the far edge of the tarmac. Both Halls and Morgan nodded in response. A tough-looking loadmaster with “Johnny” stenciled above the right breast pocket of his faded khaki flight suit stood by the open starboard-side door, beckoning them over. He was tall and looked strong as an ox, and when he took Halls’s and Morgan’s field packs, he hurled them into the rear cargo hold with ease.
As Fredericks clambered into the cockpit beside the pilot, Morgan noted Ari looking a little uncertain.
“First time?” he asked.
“War zone or helicopter?”
“Seriously.”
“Both, actually. I’ve worked in disaster relief and with refugees mainly – after the fact, if that makes sense. Not really used to the whole ‘life in peril’ thing yet,” she replied with a nervous smile. “Was Mike serious about the hallucinations?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” Morgan said confidently, while he wondered what her real story was. No doubt he’d find out soon enough. Why would the Red Cross send a basically inexperienced person out here at a time like this? “Remember: never proceed in fear, and everything will take care of itself,” he quipped.
“Thanks. I’ll try.” But Ari looked unimpressed. “I suppose you’re used to all this?”
“A little,” Morgan replied, helping her aboard.
Johnny made sure that all the kit was secure, including his two passengers, before giving the pilot a very definite thumbs up. The big chopper gave a great shudder as the engines screamed into action. There was a wobble as the wheels left the ground, and sitting close to her, Morgan could see Ari taking control of her apprehension with great calm and poise. Despite himself, he was impressed. He tapped her forearm and handed her a headset. She took it and placed it over her blond hair, deftly sliding a rubber band from her wrist, and fastening her hair into a ponytail. The helicopter gave another violent shudder and the whine of the engines became deafening as it lifted off.
The Puma flew over the main entrance to the airport, rapidly gathering speed and height as it climbed to clear the mountains ahead. Morgan looked down and saw a number of sandbagged guard posts at the key access points on the approaches to the airport. They each contained a three-man detachment of local troops manning machine guns. Morgan again clocked the buzz of electrifying activity in and around Cullentown airport. He was back in a world in which he felt at home, restored and revitalized, far from the trivialities of mundane city life.
In a place like this, where so much was uncertain, every day was an open book. There were no guarantees, no routines. It was life, pure and simple and, as always, it gripped Morgan. He often wondered what it would be like to be satisfied with a conventional life, living in the same town, catching the same bus to go to the same job, having the same problems, seeing the same people day after day, year after year. How could all those people possibly know what actually went on outside their own world? Maybe they were better off not knowing.
“If you have a look back out to sea, you’ll see the US Navy approaching,” said Fredericks, via the headset. “The rest of the world’s finally taking an interest in this place.”
“Not before time,’ said Morgan.
“There’s something else I need to show you.”
CHAPTER 15
“There it is, Steve. Down there!”
Mike Fredericks received a thumbs up of acknowledgment from Steve Kruger the helicopter pilot, who cringed as Fredericks habitually yelled into the headset mouthpiece, deafening them all. Morgan laughed as he looked through into the cockpit to see a grimacing Kruger belt Fredericks’s arm and give a reproving tap to his own headset.
“You know, these things actually work, Mike,” Kruger said for the benefit of them all. “You loud bastard.”
They all laughed as Fredericks leant over, lifted the left ear piece of Kruger’s headset and bellowed directly into his ear, “Sorry!”
Five minutes later, they were back on the ground, clear of what appeared to be a vehicle crash site. Morgan and Fredericks sprang from their seats as soon as the chopper’s tyres had bounced. Johnny grabbed three AKMs from the back, passed one each to Fredericks and Morgan, and keeping one for himself, jogged to a clearing on the edge of the wide, red dirt road, taking up a sentry position, facing northeast. Morgan offered a helping hand to a thoroughly bewildered Ari, but she ignored him and struggled down from the cargo hold. Morgan had a sense she was keen to demonstrate that she wasn’t just some helpless female. Suit yourself, he thought. As soon as she was off, Kruger took the big chopper in a low hover across to a clearing and shut her down.
“What’s this all about, Mike?” Morgan asked as they walked. His guard was up and he was glad to have the AKM. “When we were coming in, I saw what looks like a transit van down the side of the hill. This bend is a perfect choke point in the road.” Morgan had noted the high ground and dense bush on the far side of the bend. “Ambush site?”
“Looks that way,” agreed Fredericks. “When we were flying in to pick you both up earlier, Johnny spotted a vehicle that appeared to have gone off the road here. I got Steve to drop us in.” Fredericks lowered his voice for Morgan. “It’s pretty gruesome, Alex. Couple of days, by the look. It’s the priest and a couple of nuns who ran a medical clinic out this way. They’re all shot to shit and the animals have been at ’em. Follow me down.” He gestured with a movement of his head toward the edge of a steep embankment. Turning to Halls he said, “I’m not sure how you feel about these things, but you may wanna stay up here with Steve and Johnny. It’s not pretty.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll come with you.” Halls took a drink from a water bottle.
“Suit yourself. Just watch it as you come down. It gets pretty steep,” cautioned Fredericks.
Morgan reached up to help Ari, but again it was evident that she didn’t need or want his help. OK, I get it, he mused. She was no-nonsense and while her subtle rejection of his offered hand made him bristle, deep down he liked it. Seconds later, the debris of the jungle floor fell away from beneath her, and she slipped and fell with a thud, flat on her back. Morgan stepped over to her and without mockery again reached out for her. This time, in need of a steadying hand, she took it. Fredericks led them down the embankment, which fell away at a deadly gradient into thick jungle. They were on the old road that had once been the main route between the coast and the eastern highlands. While the high canopy of the jungle gave respite from the searing impact of the sun, down at ground level the air was still too hot to breathe, and their clothes were soaked with perspiration before they’d even moved 20 feet. They were about 18 miles from their destination, Pallarup. The road had changed from bitumen to gravel as it disappeared around a sharp corner into even harsher, near impenetrable jungle. They had to descend 50 feet to reach the vehicle and, although moving through thick secondary undergrowth was clearly a new experience for Ari, she was handling it.
“I’m sorry your first official duties couldn’t have been under more agreeable circumstances,” said Fredericks through labored breaths, “but I believe this wreck might just tell us something about the rebels’ intentions – if you know what I mean.”
“Roger,” replied Morgan, shaking his head as they at last arrived at the van’s final resting place. “Bloody hell!”
“Oh, Jesus!” Ari exclaimed. She drew a hand immediately to her face, gathering her shirt collar across her nose and mouth. “Is that the smell of the bodies?”
“Yeah,” confirmed Fredericks. “’Fraid so. It’s been pretty warm over the past couple of days and, unfortunately, our friends are … on the turn.”
Morgan eased past Fredericks and slid the last couple of feet down to the wreckage of the van. Both he and Fredericks began giving the area a thorough onceover. Ari awkwardly took another drink of water. The heat and stench were unbearable.
The wagon was on its side and clearly, by the amount of damage sustained, it had rolled all the way down the embankment before crashing to the position where it now lay. Normally fully laden with medical supplies, rations and the personal effects of the priest and nuns, the inside of the vehicle had been gutted, cleaned out by rebel soldiers, or possibly even local looters. Only the bodies remained. Despite her obvious apprehensiveness, Ari joined them as they picked over the site, stopping occasionally to confer. There was an eerie silence as they all pondered the lay of the land, the perfectly chosen ambush site, and the innocence of the unsuspecting victims. As the three of them variously moved about the site, each considered the enormity of the days, possibly even the hours that lay ahead.
Morgan was the first to break the quiet. He pushed himself back up through the scrub toward the road, and said, “Well, I guess we better get some shovels and bury these poor buggers.”
“Good idea,” Fredericks said. “Then we’ll need to get back to Pallarup before dark so you can meet everybody and we can start sorting out the evacuation plan. My guess is that we don’t have much time at all before this country falls to Baptiste.”
“I’d like to help, if I can,” Ari offered.
“Are you sure?” asked Morgan, immediately regretting the question, but he wondered if she’d seen anything this bad before and if she knew what she was getting herself into.
“I can handle it,” she said, with a small emphatic nod. Her tone was low, her features set. “Right then.”
