Atlantis a-1

by Robert Doherty

Dane estimated that Lucian was at least 70, if not older. Dane’s guess was the he was one of the original French ex-patriots, booted from Vietnam when the communists took over and shifting his business two countries west.

  “You've met Mister Freed,” Michelet made the introductions. “This is Mister Beasley and Mister Dane.”

  Lucian turned clear blue eyes on each man and nodded his liver spotted bald head, before returning his gaze to Michelet. “I reported to Mister Freed about what-” he paused as Michelet raised a finger ever so slightly.

  “Is the equipment we requested ready?” Michelet asked.

  Lucian inclined his head. “The plane and helicopter are here at the airfield, fueled and ready. The crews are on standby. The men are with the plane. They are the best I could get under short notice so they may not be as good as you would like.” Lucian seemed ready to say something more about that, then changed his mind. “I had the bomb you requested already put on board the plane. As far as the specialized equipment you asked for, I have arranged a meeting with a man who can supply you with what you require.”

  Michelet's face darkened in the dim glow inside the compartment. “I don't have time to barter. I told you to take care of that for me. The gear should be here!”

  Lucian met his gaze. “I never deal directly in weapons or drugs. That is how I have survived in this part of the world all these years. I might not have much life left in me, but I wish to have it end by natural means. You will not be overly delayed. This man is most efficient. We must make a short side trip to pick up the equipment.”

  Lucian rapped a walking stick on the thick glass separating their compartment from the driver and the limousine began moving.

  Dane reached down and curled his fingers in the hair on Chelsea's rump, slowly massaging the thick muscle underneath. She turned her head toward him and gave a low whine.

  The old Frenchman was hiding something, Dane was sure of it. Whatever it was that he had been about to say when they first got in the car was important, but something that Michelet didn't want Dane to know about. Dane glanced out the back window and noted a pick-up truck following them, three men in the bed, a heavy caliber machine-gun mounted on the roof of the cab. Lucian did indeed have a strong desire to remain healthy.

  They wound their way through palm-lined street, which were crowded even at this early hour. There were more cars on the street and no American GIs, but it reminded Dane very much of Saigon. Southeast Asia was a place where the hands of time moved slowly. They passed farmers pulling carts loaded with produce for the markets that would open soon.

  The limousine turned a corner and went down a narrow alley. Dane tensed, a feeling he had not experienced in a long time stabbing through him.

  “It's an ambush,” he said quietly to Freed.

  The security man looked at Dane, then out the tinted windows at the buildings looming close overhead on either side. His hand slid inside his jacket but other than that, he did nothing. Dane thought briefly of the reaction such a statement on his part would have brought from the members of RT Kansas, then he forced himself to relax. If they were attacked he was going to have to trust Lucian's men to protect them, unless of course, it was Lucian who was setting the trap. Dane doubted that with the man in the car with them.

  A set of warehouse doors swung open at the end of the alley and they were inside. Dane tensed, ready to roll out the door, but surprisingly, the feeling abated slightly as the doors closed behind them. Lucian stepped out, followed by Michelet.

  “What was that about?” Freed hissed at Dane, before exiting.

  Dane just shook his head and pushed his way past the other man. “Stay,” he ordered Chelsea who looked none too thrilled with the order, but complied, burying her nose between her front paws in the heavy carpeting inside the car and furrowing her eyebrows at Dane.

  The pick up truck with the heavy machine gun had followed them in, but it immediately turned around in the confined space behind the limo, ready to lead the way out. The interior of the warehouse was lit by naked light bulbs, spaced twenty feet apart and hanging down from the ceiling. The far wall was about forty meters away and the interior was full of crates.

  Five Cambodian men stood waiting behind a long table on which were laid two large footlockers. Lucian walked up to the table and waved his cane over the lockers. “Your equipment,” he said simply.

  “Check it, Freed,” Michelet said.

  The Cambodian in the center raised his hand. “The money first.”

  “Freed, check the gear,” Michelet repeated as he slid the metal briefcase onto the table.

  The Cambodian grabbed the case and his fingers worked at the latches as Freed swung open the first locker. Dane walked up next to Freed. Inside were six M-16A2s, still in their original wrappings. Thirty round magazines were stacked in the corners along with several cans of 5.56 ammunition. There were also a dozen green canvas bags, which Dane immediately recognized as Claymore mines.

  “The key!” the Cambodian hissed angrily, holding up the briefcase.

  Michelet reached into his pocket and held up a small metal key. “You have the money in hand. You get the key when we finish checking the equipment we have purchased from you. If you try to open that case without the key, a special charge inside will incinerate the money.”

  Lucian looked from the men on one side of the table to the other. “The money is in the case, Sihouk.”

  Sihouk hissed something in Cambodian and the other four men spread out, their hands hovering near the waistbands where the handles of large caliber handguns were prominently displayed.

  “The money is in the case and you will get the key,” Lucian said again. “Let them make sure they have what they need.”

  Sihouk said something and his men halted, ready.

  Freed threw open the second locker. Several bulky packs were inside along with some plastic cases. Dane reached in the first locker and pulled one of the M-16s out. He grabbed a 30 round magazine, made sure it was loaded, then slid it into the well of the weapon, seating it home with an audible click that edged the tension in the warehouse up a few more degrees.

  “What are you doing?” Michelet demanded.

  “Playing the game with you,” Dane said. He wasn't overly worried about Sihouk and his men. They had their money and Dane knew Michelet would give them the key. He was concerned with the feeling he'd had coming into the warehouse. “I'm not going to stand here with empty hands while you guys play who's more manly.”

  Dane held the M-16 casually at his side, the muzzle pointing toward the ground. He smiled at Sihouk. The Cambodian met his gaze, and then slowly the other man smiled also, revealing two gold teeth. Dane could read the betrayal behind that smile, but he knew no one else could.

  “All here,” Freed announced.

  Michelet tossed the key. Sihouk caught it. As Freed and Dane carried the gear to the trunk of the limo, Sihouk opened up the briefcase. He smiled once more, hissed a command and then the five Cambodians were gone, disappearing into the darkness.

  “Let's get out of here,” Lucian said. “I don’t like even transporting this sort of equipment.”

  Dane had pulled out a second M-16 when putting the weapons in the trunk along with several magazines. He tossed the weapon to Freed as they got back in the limo. “Don't say I never gave you anything,” Dane said as he followed the weapon with four magazines. “I think getting out of here is going to be more difficult than getting in was.”

  Freed loaded his rifle as the limo turned around. The doors opened and the pickup truck drove out into the alley, the limo following closely behind.

  Dane felt the sense of dread even more sharply than before. “Stop!” he yelled as the front edge of the limo passed between the doors. The driver reacted automatically, slamming on the brakes.

  The pick-up truck exploded in flames as a rocket-propelled grenade slammed into it. Several lines of tracers roared down from the surrounding rooftops peppering the street and truck. A second g
renade slammed into the street just in front of the limo. Dane kicked open his door, weapon at the ready as Michelet, Beasley and Lucian hunkered down inside, protected from the bullets by the car's armor plating and bullet proof glass, while Freed went out the other side.

  Dane used the side of the car for cover, firing an entire magazine in quick three rounds bursts at the sources of the tracers. Freed was on the other side of the car, shooting across his field of fire, covering him.

  Dane recognized the chatter of AK-47s, a sound he'd heard many times before. He slid a new magazine home. A man with a rocket launcher on his shoulder stood up, aiming down. Dane fired a quick burst, slamming the man back out of sight.

  Dane paused as he recognized a slightly different sound of automatic fire coming from the rooftops. Someone up there had a weapon other than an AK. Dane raised the M-16 to his shoulder when a body tumbled over the edge of the roof and fell to the street between the front of the limo and the burning pick-up truck. Another quick burst from the same new gun followed. Then two more.

  Suddenly, all was silent. Dane glanced over the hood of the trunk at Freed, who raised his eyebrows in question. “Let's get out of here,” was all Dane said.

  As Freed slid in the door on his side, Dane ran forward and grabbed the body that had fallen. He tossed the slender Cambodian over his shoulder and carried him, tossing the body into the back to the consternation of Michelet and Lucian and Chelsea who whined and cowered as far away from the corpse as possible.

  “Go!” Dane ordered.

  The driver needed little prompting. He pushed the wreckage of the truck out of the way with his front bumper, then accelerated.

  “Easy girl,” Dane whispered to Chelsea as he knelt next to the body.

  “What is the purpose of this?” Michelet demanded.

  “It's always good to know who's shooting at you,” Dane said as he quickly searched the man's pockets. All he found was a thick roll of local currency. He didn't know what the going rate for murder was in Bangkok but even with high inflation it looked like the roll would meet the going rate anywhere in the world. Other than that, there was nothing.

  “Know your enemies,” Dane said as he ripped the man's shirt off, “and know who the enemies of your enemies are. Because they might be your friend but then again they might not. They might be even worse enemies.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Michelet demanded.

  “You tell him,” Dane told Freed.

  “Someone busted the ambush for us from behind,” Freed said.

  “How do you know that?” Michelet asked.

  “We heard a different weapon from what the ambushers had being fired on the rooftops and there's no way we killed them all from our position,” the security man explained.

  Dane pulled a Leatherman out of the case on his belt. He extended the large knife blade and dug into the mangled flesh around one of the bullet wounds. He pushed in, then with his free hand, pressed two fingers into the hole. He felt the hard knob of a bullet between the two fingers and with great difficulty pulled it out.

  He put his bloody hand under one of the small lights. “9 millimeter. The Cambod's were firing AKs; 7.62 mm. Someone hit them from behind with a submachinegun.”

  “Who?” Lucian asked, his face still pale from the bloody incident.

  “Someone who knew we were going to the warehouse. Someone who knew we were going to get ambushed. Someone who must have been following us from the airport,” Dane said. He was tired. The bad feeling was gone and now he was drained. He sat back in the deep upholstery and closed his eyes.

  “We were followed?” Michelet asked. He turned to Lucian. “What do you know of this?”

  Lucian sputtered out a protest, but Dane's weary voice cut in. “Sihouk sold us out to someone. He got your money, and then he got money from someone else to give us up. It was just a good day’s work or him, nothing personal. You got any enemies?”

  “Hie-Tech,” Freed said.

  “What's that?” Dane asked.

  “A rival company.”

  Dane opened his eyes. “Would they try to kill you?”

  Michelet gave a harsh laugh. “We're talking hundreds of millions, if not billions of dollars involved here. Yes, they'd kill for that. Wouldn't you?”

  “No,” Dane said, which prompted another laugh from Michelet.

  “Actually, I think you were paid considerably less when you were in the army.”

  Dane stared over Chelsea at the old man. Their eyes locked, then Dane leaned back and nodded. “You're right. I was paid considerably less then.” He turned his body away from the others, placed his hand on Chelsea’s neck and closed his eyes to rest.

  They made it back to the airport without further incident, but instead of pulling up to Michelet's plane, then went around the main runway to an old hanger. Dane opened his eyes once more as they pulled inside. A battered two engine C-123 transport plane and an aging Huey helicopter rested inside.

  The limousine came to a halt. Lucian did not get out with them. He looked at Michelet. “Our business is concluded. Contrary to your feelings, I believe there is much that money cannot replace or buy. Please do not ever call me again.”

  Freed and Dane barely had time to get the lockers out of the trunk before the limousine raced away. A figure detached itself from the shadow of the C-123 and ambled over.

  “Good day,” the man said in a deep Australian accent. “Or good morning, I should say as the day is not yet upon us. I'm Porter, your pilot.”

  “Is the plane ready?” Michelet demanded.

  Dane noted that Michelet had recovered from the events of the past couple of hours. Dane imagined a person did not get to be in the position the old man was in without having hard nerves.

  “Aye, it's ready.” Porter glanced over his shoulder. “But these fellows your friend in the limo lined up. Not too sure about them, if I was you.”

  “You aren't me,” Michelet brusquely said.

  More men were coming out of the shadows. There were four of them, dressed in plain green jungle fatigues that had seen better days and were stripped of all insignia. Their boots were encrusted with mud and they had large knives prominently strapped to their belts. Rambo knives, Dane noted. Such weapons looked very impressive but were impractical for either slitting a man’s throat, which took a small commando stiletto, or cutting through the jungle, where a machete worked best. Each man had several days worth of beard on their face and their eyes were red. Dane picked up the odor of alcohol.

  “I'm McKenzie,” the largest of the four introduced himself. “Major McKenzie.”

  Dane watched as Freed stepped forward. “I know who you are, McKenzie. You're not a major any longer.”

  “These are my men,” McKenzie said, looking over the small black man in front of him, trying to size up the situation.

  Dane walked over and stood off of Freed's left shoulder. Two of the men wore faded red berets with an insignia pinned over the left eye: a set of jump wings surmounted with a maple leaf. From that Dane knew these men were formerly with the Canadian Parachute Regiment. He also knew that the Canadian Parachute Regiment had been disbanded a while ago amidst allegations of various atrocities during peace-keeping missions.

  “Break a pile of shit apart and you never know where the flotsam will surface,” Freed said, which confirmed to Dane where the mercenaries had come from and their circumstances.

  McKenzie popped a lightning quick jab with his right hand, but Freed was already moving, sliding under the punch and delivering four quick blows to McKenzie's ample gut. The larger man doubled over gasping for breath.

  “Easy,” Dane said, holding the M-16 generally pointed in the direction of the other paratroopers. “I think the fight is one-sided enough as is.”

  As McKenzie straightened, wheezing for breath, Freed hit him again, a stinging blow to his nose, bringing forth blood. Freed nimbly moved behind McKenzie and a hand snaked around his neck, the hold tightening, causing th
e Canadian to labor for breath.

  “You're not a major anymore,” Freed hissed in his ear. “Clear?”

  “Fuck you, nigger.”

  “Mistake,” Freed said. He dug the knuckle of his free hand into McKenzie's temple, bringing a yelp of pain as he hit the nerve. Freed pressed down harder, bringing tears of agony from the Canadian's eyes.

  Dane saw McKenzie’s left hand grasp the handle of his large knife. As McKenzie whipped the knife out, Freed let go of him and stepped back out of reach. McKenzie swung wildly twice, before settling down into a fighter’s crouch, eyeing his opponent with much more wariness.

  “Now listen here!” Michelet started forward, but Dane swung his arm out, hitting the old man in his chest and holding him in place.

  “Wait,” Dane said.

  McKenzie slowly straightened out of his crouch. The point of the knife wavered, then went down. “Hey, I just didn’t like you coming in here trying to piss on me and my men.”

  “You’ve already pissed on yourself,” Freed said.

  McKenzie’s face got even redder, something Dane thought wasn’t possible.

  “You're hired help,” Freed said. “Clear?”

  McKenzie smiled, a twitch of his lips that no one in the hanger bought. “Sure. Just a misunderstanding.”

  “My name is Freed. Mister Freed to you. That clear?”

  “Clear.” McKenzie slid the knife back home in its sheath.

  “Clear, what?”

  McKenzie again twitched a grin. “Clear, Mister Freed.” McKenzie stared at the smaller man, the hand going up to his head and tenderly touching the spot where Freed had elicited such agony.

  “You've been well paid up front,” Freed said. “You get the same when we return. You do exactly what I say when I say. Clear?”

  All four men sullenly nodded.

  “Any booze in your gear, you dump it now or I dump you out of the plane without a chute. Got it?” Freed stepped closer. “I can't hear heads shake. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Get the gear on board,” Freed ordered.

  As the Canadians carried the footlockers to the C-123, Freed turned to Dane. “Thanks for the help at the warehouse.”