Backdrop

by C. G. Cooper

  They worked their way further down the path. Andy had considered climbing down the rocks instead, only they were going to have to use the path to move the supplies back upslope; they might as well check the way before they had to use it.

  If he were the attackers, then he’d have someone stationed in one of the deeper shadows in the rocks to the west. The twilight would bury them deeper in darkness.

  There was a perfect ridge of rock that ran up the side of the outcropping, the near side covered in shadow and the sun shining directly in Andy’s face. If there happened to be a shallow cave to crouch in or a boulder or two to duck behind, it would make the perfect cover. Then again, they could be anywhere.

  He aimed toward the shadow.

  Caine jerked his rifle up. “What is it? What do you see?”

  Andy searched the darkness, spotted nothing, heard and saw no movement. The only thing filling the shadows was his growing paranoia.

  He began squat-walking forward. “Watch that ridge,” he whispered to Caine. “Anything moves in that direction, shoot it.”

  “Got it.”

  They reached the path below the helicopter, where the other two bodies had fallen. Both bodies had been removed. Bloodstains covered the ground where the man with the injured leg had fallen. Where the other body had lain were only scrapes where he’d been dragged away, or perhaps had even crawled.

  The shadow of the ridge had deepened as the sun had set.

  Andy said, “I’m going to stand up. Stay here.”

  With the rifle glued to his shoulder, he rose quickly, searching for targets, then dropped back down.

  Too easy.

  Someone should have taken a shot at him. He should have seen movement. Something. If it were him on the other side, that helicopter would’ve been surrounded.

  He did another pass across the area. The parking lot down at the bottom of the outcropping was only partially visible. Now he could see two black SUVs in the center of the lot. No people as far as he could see.

  He swept the road again. Where the highway met up with the desert was obscured behind the outcropping, but in the other direction he could see a few flashing lights. The road was blocked off with silent police cars.

  He was strangely relieved to see signs of life, even if it did mean another obstacle to getting the hell out of this place.

  “What is it?” Caine whispered. “Is there anybody even out there?”

  “Way down in the parking lot and at the end of the highway.”

  He went over the landscape one more time. He couldn’t see anyone moving, not even when he went over the new part of town on the other side of the highway. The air was quiet, so quiet that he could hear the wind moving through the palm tree leaves.

  “Let’s get those supplies,” he said.

  Caine raised himself up slowly, then took a moment to look over the landscape. “Damn that’s creepy. Like someone switched off the audio.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘The Honeymooners’ was a puzzlement to the young radical.

  Al-Salakhi sat before the TV watching Ralph Kramden bellow like a behemoth. The fat man had just burned himself with hot water. What was it exactly that the infidels loved about this? The big man, obviously penniless, never gave up his quest for riches. So why then was he a laughing stock? The infidels worshipped the pursuit of gold. The man was a bully who allowed his wife to yell back at him. He threatened to hit her but never followed through. Perhaps this was the source of infidel comedy: a man who cannot make up his mind.

  There came a characteristic knock, and then Yousuf, his chief soldier, entered.

  Al-Salakhi looked up at the man, who averted his eyes from the television. These types of shows were haram. The soldier wouldn’t be caught dead watching them. Al-Salakhi was allowed, of course. The venerated leader needed to educate himself on the ways of the infidels. Better to advance the cause when you knew your enemy. Better to revel in that hatred, so that your love of the Eternal could be increased and unadulterated.

  “You’re wasting my time again,” said the young radical.

  Yousuf, two years his junior, apologized profusely with a bow of the head. “I’m going to send more men.”

  Al-Salakhi put his head in his hands. “Take the helicopter down. Go in and shoot all members on board. Civilians, all. It was a job for one man. You insisted there be two. Fine, I said. Two it is. Now you tell me this is going to turn into a major operation.”

  “There were circumstances that no one could have anticipated.”

  “A helicopter accident. A random act of—say they use their favorite smear—terrorism. One man goes in, one man goes out. That man is rewarded with life everlasting. The wreckage and the bodies are discovered. The news hits. Am I missing anything?”

  “With all due respect, Saiyid, not all members on board were civilians.”

  Al-Salakhi shot a look at the man, who took a nearly-imperceptible step back.

  “One of them,” continued the soldier, “was an American Marine.”

  Al-Salakhi drew a breath and sat back on his couch, his mind lost in possibilities. “Is he alone?”

  “As far as we can tell.”

  “And our man on the helicopter, he is still alive?”

  “Yes, saiyid.”

  “Send in a small team. Four men.”

  “We’ll need more.”

  The young radical stared at him. “Four men. Have four more ready to move in from behind. Eight is enough? Or would you prefer a battalion of one hundred or more?”

  “The four shall be sufficient. With the addition backup, we are sure to prevail.”

  “Well, if they don’t, no matter. You shall get to your reward all the sooner.”

  The man’s lips parted with a dry sound. Al-Salakhi turned back to the television.

  “Look at this buffoon. Do you know why the infidels laugh at him?”

  He looked up at Yousuf, who continued to avert his gaze.

  “I’ll tell you why. He is a poor man who cannot surmount his poverty no matter how hard he tries. Americans think that’s funny.” Without taking his eyes off the screen, he said, “I’m assuming our man made no mention of the Marine in any of his communiques?”

  “You’re correct, saiyid.”

  Al-Salakhi took a deep breath. “Proceed.”

  “Thank you, saiyid. Peace be upon you in the name of the Prophet.”

  “Yousuf.”

  “Yes, saiyid?”

  “Capture our man and bring him to me. I don’t care how you do it, but I want him alive.”

  “Yes, saiyid.”

  The soldier exited the tent. Ralph Kramden threatened to send his wife to the moon.

  How does one even presume to understand such people?

  Chapter Twenty

  They climbed the rocky slope, one after the other. Andy went first.

  Part of him wanted to believe that their attackers were incompetent. They’d made too many mistakes already. Andy and the others should never have made it out of the helicopter, for one thing. Agonizing over the convenience of these particulars was not doing him any good. His skin crawled. The back of his neck dripped with sweat: moisture he couldn’t afford to lose.

  The helicopter cabin was fairly stable on the rocks. The smell of jet fuel had dissipated somewhat, allowing the stink of gore and death from the bodies inside to pervade the immediate area. Andy stood just inside the door and watched the countryside as Caine climbed up after him, moving swiftly. He hoisted himself up into the cabin and coughed at the smell, locking his jaw together at the sight of the dead bodies.

  Andy pushed him over to the side of the door. “Stay here and keep an eye out.”

  Andy slid his rifle around on its strap until it was out of the way, then climbed along the steep slope of the cabin floor to the back of the helicopter, where the other seats had been removed. Large black cases were secured to the floor with webbed straps. They hadn’t been loosened by the crash.

  The c
ases were big and black with silver trim, the kind that could be wheeled around effortlessly or picked up by a small forklift. They were latched shut but not padlocked. He picked one and unstrapped it from the floor, unlatched it, then exhaled in relief when the lid opened freely.

  Inside were pieces of camera equipment, packed in gray pieces of jigsaw-puzzle foam. There was also a universal cell phone cable. That he took. Also, a handheld drill. A veritable bounty.

  He closed the lid and tried another case.

  “See anything?” he asked Caine.

  “Nothing.”

  Another case. This one held party food surrounded by a cold mist from several plastic packs of dry ice. He checked another case and found water in one-liter bottles. He pulled one out and rolled it down toward Caine, who drank it gratefully.

  Food and water, check. Next item on the wish list: first-aid kits. And, if a miracle happened, a working radio. A pistol or two would also be nice.

  Andy went through the rest of the cases quickly, then searched the walls to try to find a first aid kit strapped to one of them.

  Nothing.

  He found a few empty bags, thin plastic ones. Nothing they could use to carry a significant number of items. On top of which, the crates holding the supplies were huge, bigger than he remembered. Even between the two of them, they wouldn’t be able to move a full one out of the helicopter. Their pockets might help. And even if they unloaded it, moved the case down to the path, and loaded it again, it wasn’t going to work. They wouldn’t be able to move the cases around the steep, narrow corners.

  He walked to the front of the cabin, where the pilots had smashed into the outcropping. Seeing something out of the corner of his eye through the side doors, he stopped. A flash of reflected light in the distance.

  “Caine.”

  Caine said in a low voice, “I saw it. No idea what it was, though.”

  “Binoculars, maybe. Someone’s watching us.”

  “Who?”

  “No idea.”

  “Can they hit us from there?”

  “If it’s a professional, you bet your ass they can.”

  Caine pulled back a little behind the cover of the wall of the cabin. Such cover as it was.

  Andy leaned forward between the cockpit seats as far as he could. The front of the cockpit was smashed in, with wires, support beams, and mashed-up windshield plastic filling up most of the space. The copilot’s arm dangled between the seats. A puddle of blood lay under it, but it had stopped dripping. He tried to search the men’s pockets but found nothing he could use.

  Then he crouched and searched under the seats.

  There were first aid kits under both. However, both were trapped under the bases of the seats; they were meant to be removed from the front.

  Andy waited a full minute before taking out his new multitool and proceeding to cut one of the first aid kits open.

  He could hear Caine’s teeth rattling. No biggie. The kid had kept his cool when it counted. If he wasn’t scared to death, Andy would’ve been worried.

  The first aid supplies went into a plastic bag that seemed to rustle with every movement he made. He handed it off to Caine.

  The water and food were stuffed carefully into a single thin plastic bag.

  Andy found a pair of catering aprons tucked to the side of the food, pulled one out and stuffed it with more booty. He tied it up, hung it around his neck, and filled the other one with water for Caine to carry.

  It was the best they could do. They had to have their hands free. He latched the crates shut. Maybe the dry ice would keep the food cool a little longer.

  They climbed back down the rocks to the trail. This time Caine was quieter, even while carrying the water and the plastic bag full of first-aid supplies, than he had been coming up. Fear had honed his abilities. Whether the lesson would stick was another story.

  They climbed back up to the castle, crouched so low that they were almost dragging their supplies on the ground. Sweat rolled down between Andy’s shoulder blades.

  A shot ricocheted off the rocks before him.

  “Shit!”

  “Where the hell did that come from?” yelled Caine.

  Andy looked up and saw a man taking aim from a position behind the wall. He fired back. The man ducked out of sight. Andy kept his rifle trained on the spot.

  “Come on, you bastard,” he muttered. “Show yourself again... come on.” He called out, “Caine?”

  “Just shitting myself, sir.”

  “Drop whatever you have and find cover.”

  “There is no cover.”

  “Then go back to the whirlybird.”

  He heard the crash of supplies and the stumbling of feet back down the path. Then another shot. And he heard Caine cry out.

  “Damn it!”

  He ran back down the path, his breath coming in hitches.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  O’Brien laid the rifle down at his side. The damned thing was too heavy. He preferred the molded rubber weapons they used on set, the ones made for movie stars to tote while running across a field or through a burning warehouse. He rubbed at his sore biceps.

  Being stuck out here at the asshole of the world was not what he’d signed up for. He had a job to do, and had done it. Now they wanted more and more out of him. It wasn’t fair.

  Chris Pratt wouldn’t have found himself in this situation. Then again, Christ Pratt wasn’t a real actor. Oh sure, he could play the part, speak his lines, go back to his trailer for an interview or two. But he had no conviction. Not like the way Donny O’Brien had conviction.

  This whole role was him. He was the role. This was the right thing to do. Caine was just a suck up who followed the paycheck.

  Let them come, he thought. Let them come and obliterate the entire corrupt bunch of them. We’ll only be getting what we deserve for what we’ve wrought upon these people.

  He stated the words aloud, with almost no breath, just barely enough for his lips to form them. “Let them come.”

  “Hey.”

  The voice made him jump.

  “Damn it, Serena,” he said. “You scared the crap outta me.”

  “Why aren’t you holding that rifle? You’re supposed to be protecting us.”

  O’Brien gave a mock salute and hoisted the rifle over his shoulder.

  She took a step closer.

  Too close, lady.

  “Listen, schmuck, if we were on a movie set, you could disrespect me all you like. But guess what? This is not a movie set. This, in case you haven’t realized, is a life and death situation. And the only guy even remotely capable of getting us out of here with all our limbs intact put me in charge of not only your life, but the lives of everyone inside.”

  “You want me to be a soldier?”

  “I want you to pay attention. That’s the minimum I expect of you. We’ll work on your basic training some other time.”

  He stared straight ahead. “Fine.”

  “I’m serious, Donny. You slack off for one second too long and that’s your ass shot dead. They’re not exactly boy scouts out there.”

  Still staring. “Thanks.”

  “Now, if you need anything, just yell. Okay?”

  “Mm hm.”

  He stared at the landscape while the bitch went back in.

  The miserable little American government-loving bitch.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “The rock... it blew up!”

  Caine was near hysterics. He lay on his side, frozen, his eyes clenched shut.

  “It blew up, Andy! Oh, my God!”

  “Relax,” said Andy, pulling the boy up by his shirt collar. “It didn’t blow up.”

  “You weren’t there! I’m telling you—”

  A spray of bullets snaked by the boy’s head. “Oh God!”

  “We need to take cover,” Andy said. “Back to the helo.”

  They scrambled back up the slope to the mangled copter and crawled into it. Another spray of bullets per
forated the side as they did.

  “What...” panted Caine, “in the name... of... the Lord... do we... do?”

  “The first thing you do,” Andy said calmly, “is get a hold of yourself. You’re no use to anyone panicking. Take deep breaths. Focus on what’s happening now, right now. Not in the past, not in the future. Right now. Look.” He held up his pointer finger. “Stare right here. This is now. This is what we focus on. Deep breaths. Got it?”

  The boy closed his eyes took the prescribed breath. He nodded, and said windedly, “Okay.”

  “Now, here’s the math problem: Two good guys plus X number of bad guys, divided by a couple of cases of supplies. The key to solving this puzzle is in tactics. Not strength or numbers. Strategy. A little bravery helps too.”

  “I can’t be brave.”

  “Fake it. It’s the same thing.”

  The six little words of wisdom seemed to work a tiny miracle on the boy’s face. He nodded determinedly.

  “Now,” said Andy. “Don’t panic. Here’s the rest of the math problem. Those bullets that sprayed the side of the copter came from a different place than the ones that shot at us out there.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Are you sure.”

  “Very. The difference in angles suggests triangulation. Which means—”

  “Three shooters,” said Caine.

  “Exactly. Maybe more. But whether it’s three or a hundred, isn’t really the point. It’s not about the numbers, it’s about the situation they have us in. We’re in the center of a circle. And if our attackers have got any brains, they will make it their mission to shrink that circle. So, here’s the thing. How do we get out of a closed circle?”

  Before Caine could answer, Andy continued: “When you’re in the center, make it so that it’s not the center anymore.”

  “Man,” said Caine, “this probably isn’t the best time to tell you this, but I sort of flunked geometry miserably.”

  “Listen, we need to make something else the center of their attention, is all I’m saying. A diversion.”