The Lazarus Moment

by J. Robert Kennedy

  But right now, the rebels were playing right into their hands.

  “Here they come,” said Atlas, positioned about twenty yards to his right. He had nine men with him including his team, the SEALs and the two Secret Service agents. Nine guns should be enough, with five more on the other side of the river if it became necessary.

  He watched as the rebels neared the center of the river, it shallow here yet still up to their armpits. They were strung together in groups of four or five, hands clasped at the wrists as they helped each other across.

  Teamwork.

  Something he could respect.

  Too bad it meant their deaths.

  He watched the other side and saw a group still standing at the top of the other embankment.

  Ah shit!

  “Take cover! Pass it on!” he hissed, the message relayed quickly in either direction as he twisted, pressing his back against the tree he was stationed behind. As predicted gunfire erupted from the other side, tearing into the trees. He made himself as small as possible, tucking in his arms, squeezing his legs tight together, hoping the others were doing the same.

  The orders he had given were clear. Should the enemy open fire before crossing the river, do not return fire. It was essential that the hostiles think they were long gone. Only then would they completely commit.

  And only then could this tiny force overcome such overwhelming odds.

  Lt. Commander Jacobson froze, the distinct sound of gunfire so alien to their environment it was easily heard. They were close, damned close, less than half a mile, Squads Two and Three already having reached them, making better time following the trail they had already blazed.

  “Let’s move!” he shouted, spurring on those in the lead as they hacked away at the underbrush, the heavy fire continuing. “We’re almost there!”

  They had to get into this fight before it was too late. The gunfire was heavy and sustained, as if whoever was attacking was in complete control of the situation.

  Which meant all might have already been lost.

  And he had failed.

  Domingos held up his hand. “Cease fire!” His men on the embankment held their fire, the rest of the men, now on the middle of the river, visibly relaxed, resuming their struggle across, excited chatter as they realized, as he did, the unbelievable truth.

  There’s no one there!

  It was a foolish mistake, whoever was in command of the President’s security detail unfit for duty and clearly not a combat veteran like himself. He had fought for most of his life against the government forces and in the end, he had essentially won, though he had never been rewarded for the part he played.

  In fact, it was an insult, a slap in the face, how he had been treated. And it wasn’t just him, it was his men as well. The leaders who were closer to the urban centers had become the politicians with the high salaries and cushy lifestyles. The women, the cars, the houses, the power.

  He and those like him in the rural commands had received nothing but a pat on the back and an order to relinquish their weapons.

  Over his dead body.

  The new government had tried to disarm them forcefully, but his men had fought them off and retreated deeper into the wild, eventually the government giving up, figuring they couldn’t do any harm hidden away where they were.

  And they were right.

  He and his men were no threat to anyone, the tiny area they controlled along the river meaningless, the locals happy to have them there since they acted as a quasi-police force, and in exchange, they collected a small toll from any boat that passed through. They never collected from the locals—they wanted them on their side. But the boats from north or south were almost always pleasure or commerce, the passengers or owners far wealthier than he and his men.

  They happily paid the toll, or unhappily at the point of a gun.

  Complaints had been made to the government by some, a couple of gunboats sent up to challenge them, but his men made quick work of one, the other fleeing.

  And the toll continued.

  But once he had his hands on the President, everyone in Maputo would listen to him, would bow to his demands for autonomy and respect for his men. And the payday would mean they’d be able to fund their own damned country.

  And his share meant complete freedom.

  A girl on each arm, a driveway filled with cars, and a house trimmed with gold.

  He frowned.

  I’ll have to buy my wife her own house.

  He stifled a grin at the thought. He was married with two grown children. He couldn’t stand her though, it arranged when they were young. Usually those marriages grew into loving relationships, or at least ones of mutual respect.

  But not his.

  She had been a hateful bitch from the moment they married. Sweet until the day, but once the ceremony was completed, she had nagged at him over everything, every waking hour.

  So he had gone to war, it more peaceful.

  He came back occasionally, though hadn’t been for several years. His sons had joined him when they were of age though after peace was declared returned to the village to establish families of their own. They had urged him to come home but he shook his head. “She hasn’t changed, has she?”

  They both seemed crestfallen, his eldest answering. “No, father, she still hates you.”

  He had hugged them both, smiling. “Don’t worry, the feeling is mutual. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you. Now go home, take pretty wives for love, and make me lots of grandbabies.”

  He hadn’t seen them since they left, though he did receive news of them through word of mouth up and down the river. They were doing well, and after he received his ransom, he’d make sure they were taken care of. And he knew them well enough to know that if he didn’t take care of his hateful wife, they would use their money to make her life better.

  So he might as well do it himself so they could enjoy their own share without having to dilute it.

  They loved their mother. Why, he couldn’t fathom; she treated them barely better than she treated him.

  He thought of how he loved his own mother and shrugged.

  Boys and their mothers.

  He made a vow to see her when this was all over.

  He motioned for the others to come down from the embankment and they all stepped into the water. The current was swift and he felt his foot slip slightly. He stopped and pointed to one of the men still near the shore. “Get that rope.”

  The man looked then nodded, pushing himself through the water and grabbing a rope the survivors had fashioned out of vines. It was still attached above and apparently tied off at the other end. His man cut it off with a chop of his machete, then reeled in as much of the slack from the other side as he could, another hack rewarding him with a good ten meters of it.

  He brought it over to Domingos who handed one end to his nephew. “Wrap this around your left wrist.” His nephew complied then Domingos left about five feet of slack between them, looping it around his own left wrist. He handed the rest to the next man, in all five of them able to move forward, the rope looped between them in case one of them should fall. The first of his men were almost at the shore as his group neared the middle. The current was stronger than he was expecting. Manageable, yet strong, each raised foot pushed slightly downriver, making it a little challenging to keep one’s footing.

  The water was almost to his armpits, it a pleasant cool, and he was enjoying the respite from the heat they had endured all day when he heard his nephew yelp then a tug on the rope. Domingos’ head spun toward the boy but he was nowhere to be seen. He pulled on the rope, the boy’s arm appearing for a moment, then suddenly he felt his own feet slip out from under him.

  He sucked in a breath just before he dropped below the surface, his nephew tugging on his arm. His legs swept out from under him and he dropped even further, then suddenly stopped, the rope biting into his arm as the other men pulled. He reached up with his free hand and gripped the ro
pe, kicked out with his feet, one managing to hit the bottom enough to catch hold. He turned, letting go with his right hand and flipped around on the rope, keeping his foot planted on the river bottom, improving the angle and breaking the surface.

  He gasped for breath as his other foot touched bottom. His nephew was still under, the tugs on the rope continuing but they wouldn’t be for long. He grabbed onto the rope with his other hand and pulled with all his might. The boy popped above the surface for a moment, drawing in a gasp of air then dropped below again.

  And Domingos’ feet slipped out again.

  The water enveloped him, it strangely quiet below the surface, almost peaceful. The rope continued to tear into his wrist as it was pulled from both directions. He hadn’t had a chance to get a full breath and he could feel himself starting to panic as his lungs threatened to burst. Reaching with his free hand, he pulled the machete from his belt and struck out at the rope, missing. He raised it again, the blade breaking the surface, then chopped down as hard as he could, his momentum cut as soon as he hit the water, but this time it hit the rope. He chopped again then again, the effort leaving his lungs burning, his body demanding he take a breath.

  He swung again.

  And suddenly the pull was broken, the others dragging him to the surface, one of his men reaching around and wrapping an arm around his waist as he regained his feet. He coughed the water out of his lungs, sucking in several large breaths before he looked at the frayed end of the vine, his nephew’s screams fading in the distance as the river carried him away. He felt bad. A bit. He wasn’t a good kid. A selfish little prick that complained constantly whenever he was asked to do any work.

  He wouldn’t be missed.

  But his mother’s going to kill me.

  He turned to his men.

  “Nobody tells my sister.”

  His men laughed and he joined in as they resumed their crossing.

  Dawson watched as a group of the men laughed, one of their comrades lost to the river. He could never understand the cavalier attitude toward life in some parts of the world. He had watched the blade cut the rope, and he didn’t blame the man for doing it. If you were both going to die, he could see cutting the other man loose. Sacrifice one to save the other. It’s not something he would necessarily do. He couldn’t imagine cutting Red or Niner away, dooming them, just to save his own skin.

  But he could understand the rationale, and perhaps if he were desperate and dying, he might do the same, unable to control the instinct to survive.

  Though he knew one thing.

  There was no way in hell he’d be laughing about it.

  It pissed him off.

  “Let’s give them something to laugh about.” He took aim. “Open fire.”

  Nine guns opened up on the unsuspecting force, the cries of the shocked enemy more satisfying than he had expected, the laughter at the expense of one of their own affecting him deeply. He was tired of this jungle, tired of running, tired of not facing his enemy.

  And now he finally had that chance.

  His enemy had made a tactical error, a grave tactical error, and they were going to pay for it. This cat and mouse game was ending here and now, and as each man cried out then slipped below the surface, carrying them away, he could feel the pressure of the past day lifting with each recoil of his weapon into his shoulder.

  The return fire was sporadic, mostly sprayed unaimed into the air as they dropped, their human chains breaking apart as they tried to take aim, the buddy system failing. Their numbers dwindled rapidly and in less than two minutes the river was empty, the last cries lost in the distance, the blood already swept away.

  It was as if it had never happened.

  He checked the opposite shore to make sure none had remained behind, then stepped out from behind his cover, walking to the shore.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked, the others stepping out, a string of affirmatives coming from his left and right. He put a hand up to his mouth. “You okay over there?”

  Red and the others stepped into view near where the cable had been tied off.

  “The only reason you won is because we thinned them out first!”

  Dawson laughed, tossing his head back, relief washing over him as he realized their plight was nearly over. “Get your asses over here and we’ll thank you properly.”

  Red waved and Dawson turned to the Secret Service agents. “You two get back to the main party and let them know everything is going to be fine. Set up camp, get a fire going, and let’s hunker down until the SAR team gets here.”

  Pleased expressions abounded as the Secret Service agents disappeared into the jungle.

  Somebody shouted in the distance, downriver.

  He cursed.

  Clearly some had survived.

  Maybe this isn’t over.

  Domingos heard one of his men shout from the shoreline and he kicked toward him, his hand outstretched as he struggled for breath. He felt fingers grasp his, then someone grab his wrist, halting his progress, his legs swinging toward the shore as he was hauled out of the water. He collapsed on the riverbank, clearing his lungs of water with several involuntary heaves, then dropped onto his back, his chest rapidly rising and falling as a few of his men gathered round him, some wounded, others unscathed.

  “How many?” he asked, pushing up onto his elbows.

  “Six.”

  “Six?” He felt his stomach tighten.

  “That’s all so far. There may be more, but…”

  He nodded, putting his arms up, his men hauling him to his feet.

  Six. Out of two hundred.

  And that didn’t count Nyusi’s seventy men. Almost three hundred soldiers, three hundred comrades, dead. With nothing to show for it.

  Nothing.

  It was heartbreaking, though not for the reasons it should be. He was supposed to be rich, and now he was poorer than he ever had been. His army was wiped out, his command in tatters.

  He had nothing.

  He had no one to command, no one to lead, which meant those he lived off of had no reason to obey him. The income from the tolls would disappear, the respect of the villagers would be lost, and he’d probably be driven out of the area.

  To return to what?

  His wife?

  Better death than that.

  He looked at his men in the moonlight, recognizing and feeling their fear and anger, their confusion and uncertainty. Their lives as they knew it had just ended, almost everyone they knew dead.

  For nothing.

  “What do we do, sir?”

  He stared upriver. It would be suicide to try and pursue the Americans. It was over, the President and the others no longer a prize that could be caught.

  But he was forgetting one thing.

  “Let’s get down to the plane and see what we can retrieve. There’s still one hell of a payday there, and with there so few of us left, we don’t need to split it so many ways.”

  This brightened the faces of the men around him, and probably staved off a summary execution.

  I might still get my Jaguar.

  Air Force One Survivors’ Camp, Mozambique

  Dawson rested against one side of a tree, his knees drawn up halfway, Niner, Atlas and Spock circling the rest of the trunk. They had wanted to help but the civilians were so grateful they had ordered those who had fought for them, off their feet. The brush was almost cleared away, two good fires going, water and rations being handed out.

  And the mood was optimistic for the first time since the virus had wiped their control systems.

  He looked over at Airman Lennox, the relief on his face clear, he and Cornel getting along once again. They had been stranded on the opposite side of the river during the ordeal, and with almost no one left alive that knew of his crime, he had been treated as just another survivor, Cornel apparently biting his tongue. Dawson was no lawyer, and definitely not a judge. He understood why the man did what he did, though couldn’t condone it. The man had acted to
save his family yet in the process killed almost fifty people. He didn’t know if the man would be thrown in prison when they got back, though he was pretty sure his Air Force career was over.

  No matter what, there were no winners here, only victims. Lennox was a victim, of that there was no doubt, and through his actions dozens died and some would argue—though he’d call bullshit on it—that the blood of hundreds of dead rebels stained his hands as well.

  “Meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy.”

  Dawson’s head lolled over to the side, staring at Niner. “Huh?”

  “What I want to eat when I get home.”

  “Doesn’t sound very Korean,” rumbled Atlas from the opposite side of the tree.

  “You’re the one who keeps telling me I’m American.”

  “You are.”

  “I know. And my parents insisted we live like Americans. My mom makes awesome Korean food, but most nights around the table were American style. My mom never wanted my friends to turn up their noses at what was served if they stayed for dinner, so she only made Korean food twice a week or on special occasions.”

  Spock grunted. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Dawson could hear Niner shift. “Excuse me?”

  “Not your mom’s cooking. I find it hard to believe you had friends.”

  Dawson laughed, the thud of a landed punch heard behind him. Atlas grunted. “Could anyone else see these friends?”

  “Don’t make me come over there and kick your ass,” replied Niner.

  “You and what imaginary army?”

  Dawson heard the comm beep, the call he had been waiting for arriving, Red’s team having handed over their comms while they rested.

  “Bravo Zero-One, Control Actual. Come in, over.”

  “Control Actual, Zero-One, I read you, over.”

  “Zero-One, happy to report that your hostiles are in complete retreat back down the river with no one on your side. SAR team wants to know if you can get back across the river.”

  Dawson glanced at Niner who grinned. “Negative, Control, that was a one way ride.”