by Paul Bishop
He wanted to say first-class didn’t count for much inside the Biodome but kept his mouth shut.
“What do we have in terms of weapons?” he asked.
“Next room over. Follow me.”
The Aussie punched a code into a keypad that secured the heavy metal door and it opened. As he stepped inside, he said, “Lights.”
Illumination almost magically appeared from overhead fluorescent bulbs. In their light, more wooden crates were visible. Some were labeled with weapon identifiers and others with various ammunition calibers. One held an M-6604, a modified mini-gun.
“A big gun is problematic,” Lassiter said and pointed to the M-6604 crate. “Your field of fire is limited. When you come under attack in the Biodome, it’s from every direction.”
Milton smirked, walked over to the crate, and ripped the lid off with a deft gesture. He picked up the heavy weapon as easily as if he handled a child’s toy. Lassiter had to admit that the large gun looked almost small when the big Aussie held it at waist level and began to rotate slowly.
“I can tear up a wide swath of terrain with this bitch,” he said. “Once, when we were surrounded by haji’s in the desert, I did my little armed pirouette.” His smile widened. “They thought they had us surrounded, but all they did was give me a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of fire. I sent a whole force up to look for their seventy-two virgins.”
Lassiter remained silent. He’d faced human foes as well and come out victorious but being attacked in the Biodome was completely different. In there, the entire world attacked you all at once.
The big man replaced the mini-gun in the crate and turned toward him.
“Satisfied?”
Before he could answer, the other man’s cell phone rang, and he answered it.
While he waited, he rubbed his palm over his face. A bone-wrenching fatigue began to sweep over him. Insomnia had robbed him of any decent rest and the adrenaline buzz from Milton’s ability test of him and the conversation with Stratton had slowly worn off. He glanced at his watch. It was 0427. He leaned his head back and yawned.
“Don’t tell me you’re running out of steam, mate?” Milton said.
He yawned again. “I had planned to head back to my room to sleep after I finished my drink in the bar.”
His companion’s eyes narrowed. “I have special medication. I’ll get you some. You won’t fall asleep for a week, guaranteed.”
“No thanks. I don’t use that shit,” he refused firmly.
Milton looked disappointed. “I hope you won’t turn into a weak sister inside the zone.”
Lassiter felt a surge of anger. “Ask me again once we’re in there.”
The big Aussie stood and stared, then laughed. “All right, lassie, there are a few dorm rooms in this building where you can grab a few hours.” He raised an eyebrow. “We’d rather you didn’t leave now you’re committed to the mission.”
He had assumed as much. When you lured someone in with an offer they couldn’t refuse, you didn’t give them time to reflect on the probability of it being a suicide mission. You didn’t want them to weigh their options. But it didn’t matter. The way he felt, any bed would be welcome.
If only sleep would accompany it.
Slumber was as elusive as ever. As Lassiter felt himself finally drift off, he prayed he wouldn’t have the dream again. At least he had a room to himself, which would be a rarity once they settled inside the Biodome. In there, any semblance of privacy was left at the entrance wall.
He opened his eyes when the sounds of voices and machines intruded. His first instinct was to check the Beretta under his pillow, the wad of money in his pocket, and his watch. It was nine-thirty and the day had already started. The noise indicated it was well underway. He slipped from his bunk and felt an overwhelming need to urinate.
When he opened the door a crack, Milton stood forty feet away in the middle of the large are. He was in conversation with a heavyset man in a suit and two women in jungle fatigues. One was blonde, the other brunette. Forklifts carrying heavy wooden crates maneuvered around them.
Still in his underwear and using the door to shield his body, Lassiter waved to catch Milton’s attention. The big Aussie either didn’t notice or ignored him. Fortunately, the two women had their backs to him.
He closed the door, returned to the cot, and sat to put his pants and boots on. He didn’t know how soon they planned on leaving, but he’d hoped he’d have time to put them through even a little Biodome combat training. His bladder still ached. This time, he strode out the door and out onto the floor.
One of the forklifts screeched to stop and the driver yelled a torrent of curses at him, telling him to watch where he was going. The guy sounded like a fellow American, from New York maybe. The sleeves of his light-blue work shirt were rolled up over thick forearms, and his face was a rotund oval with a porcine look to it. Milton and his three companions all turned to view the exchange.
Lassiter thought about pulling the guy out of his seat and giving him an object lesson but decided his bladder needed attention first. He ignored the driver and stepped around the back of the forklift.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Do you want to make something of it, ya pussy?” the driver called after him.
“Make an appointment,” he retorted and strode toward Milton, who had one of his perpetual grins plastered on his face. “And get ready to stand in line.”
“Anytime, buddy,” the porcine-faced man yelled.
“G’day, mate,” the big Aussie said.
“It will be as soon as you direct me to the facilities,” he said. “I need to clean up.”
The two women studied him curiously. Both were attractive. One was tall and willowy with dark hair and an olive complexion. The other was short, blonde, and a little plump. He placed the tall one in her mid-thirties and the blonde a decade younger. The corners of her mouth curved upward into a slight smile. The other woman’s nostrils flared, and she looked away with obvious disinterest.
Milton pointed to the opposite end of the warehouse. “It’s a trek. I’d be glad to get the guy on the forklift to give you a lift.”
Lassiter merely turned and walked in the direction he had indicated.
“You make friends so easily,” the Aussie called to his back. “Come on over when you’re presentable.”
He was surprised at the luxury. It was a large room with half a dozen plastic sinks, makeshift showers, and four portable toilet compartments. Even the smell wasn’t bad. A cart with stacks of towels, soap, and shaving kits was to the right of the door. He immediately went into one of the port-o-potties and relieved himself. If only I’d had an opportunity to do this prior to meeting the belligerent forklift driver, he thought.
Not knowing when he’d get another chance, Lassiter stripped his clothes off, had a quick shave, and stepped into one of the showers. The water was the usual lukewarm temperature but hot water wasn’t really a necessity in the desert. He took the time to soap himself liberally and rid himself of the unwanted, accumulated sand that had found its way into his most intimate areas and did a quick spot rinse of his underwear. He wrung it out as best he could but still felt an uncomfortable chill when the damp garment clung to his body. It was made of a quick-drying material, so his discomfort wouldn’t last long.
When he stepped out, he was surprised to see Milton standing close by. He was smoking and the forklifts were gone. The space appeared deserted except for two guards at the overhead door fifty yards away.
“There you are, mate.” The tip of the big Aussie’s cigarette glowed as he drew on the butt.
“Here I am,” he said and moved forward.
“The others are grabbing a bite in our cafeteria,” his companion said. “Care to join them?”
“Who are the two women?” he asked. “And the fat guy in the suit.”
“The fat guy is Mr. Cameron. He’s the project coordinator.”
“He doesn’t look the type to get his
hands dirty.”
Milton drew on the cigarette again, and the red ash hung crookedly in front of his huge fingers. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he said, “Hardly. He handles the money.”
After one last drag, he stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his boot. He field-stripped the butt. “Are you ready?”
Lassiter saw they were alone. “Not yet. Give it to me straight, Milton. What’s the real game plan here?”
The man ground the remnants of the cigarette between his fingers and raised two querulous eyebrows. “What do you mean? I thought everything was explained last night. Or were you too drunk to remember?”
“I wasn’t drunk, and I do remember,” he said. “But I’m not sure about the plausibility of it.”
Milton canted his head. “How so?”
“For one thing, going in there is tough enough without having to worry about handling some wild jungle man with kid gloves.”
“Afraid?”
“Only wondering how we’re supposed to capture a guy who moves like a wraith and doesn’t want to be captured, then bring him out in one piece.”
The man shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t opted for sleep, mate. I could’ve brought you up to speed much quicker.”
He caught a glimpse of the big man’s eyes and noticed that his pupils were saucer-sized. Ill at ease, he wondered what he was taking. It was one thing going back inside and another to have someone juiced on uppers watching your back.
“Humor me. Let’s play catch-up,” he said.
Milton’s face cracked into another lopsided grin. “You wonder how we’ll capture Tarzan?” He raised his arm, then snapped it down.
A large cracking noise reverberated through the air. Lassiter’s back was struck by something heavy and hard. Nylon tentacles whirled around him and snuggled his body from head to toe. They drew inward to lash his arms against his sides. In seconds, the material had encompassed him and an electric current surged through him. It was similar to being zapped by a taser.
He began to topple. Milton snagged him so he didn’t land on the solid metal floor. When the big man called out in French, two black men dressed in camouflaged fatigues jumped down from a high perch on top of the shower room. Both were native Africans.
“What the hell is this?” Lassiter said.
“This,” Milton said, still holding him. “Is the how we’ll snare Tarzan—Paul Stratton—or what’s left of him.” He spoke in French again to the Africans. One of them manipulated the switches on a large, gun-like apparatus. The other’s nimble fingers pulled at the nylon netting. The stippled strips adhered to themselves with an incredible tenacity but were easily peeled apart. Lassiter felt a flush of humiliation as they quickly removed the confining material from his body.
“This is Patrice and Kimba,” Milton said. “They’re two of the finest animal trappers in the Congo.”
The two Africans smiled and their dark lips parted to reveal startling white teeth.
“We use dis to catch mountain gorillas,” Patrice said.
“Silverbacks,” his partner added. “No matter how strong, dey no can move.”
“I know the feeling,” he said. “And feel their pain.”
Milton uttered a hardy laugh. “I must admit,” he said, “I find it disconcerting I was able to catch you off guard, mate.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, mate. I was under the impression we were on the same team.”
“We are,” his companion retorted. “But don’t forget who’s running the show.”
Lassiter regarded the big man squarely but said nothing to agree or disagree. He wondered what Milton’s story was. He seemed pure mercenary, in it for the money and willing to pledge his loyalty to the highest bidder, but there had to be more to it.
“The clock’s ticking,” the other man said. “We’re set to take off in six hours.”
“Six hours? We’ll get there at dusk.”
“Don’t tell me a tough guy like you is afraid of the dark?” the man retorted with a wink.
They left the two Africans stuffing the nylon netting back into the net-gun and walked across to another set of doors. The rich smell of food—real food—cooking on a stove greeted his nostrils and his stomach came to life. It had been a while since he’d eaten a decent meal besides the MRE rations he’d had in his apartment.
Inside, the two women and the heavyset man who had talked with Milton sat at one of the solid wooden tables. Across the room, more clusters of men had gathered. Armand, wearing a set of butterfly bandages on his forehead, and his buddy Pierre were among them. They sat with a group of five other men and paid no attention to him.
At another table, the man with the porcine face sat with a group of other similarly clad workers. Obviously, the equipment had all been moved to where it needed to be. The forklift driver looked at him. He said something to the others at his table and elicited laughter. Pierre and Armand turned their heads at the comment, which had been too faint for Lassiter to hear.
Perhaps anytime has arrived.
He didn’t normally look for trouble, but in this testosterone-laden environment, he couldn’t afford to appear weak—especially if some of these men would accompany him into the Biodome. The weak weren’t respected in there, nor did they survive long. They became the first expendables—red shirts.
The place was remarkably devoid of sand. Milton led him to the cook’s station and told him to order anything he wanted. The rich assortment looked like something from long ago and far away and he licked his lips.
“Eggs, scrambled, real crisp bacon, some of those potatoes, and toast,” he said.
The cook, a swarthy looking guy with a mustache, nodded and smiled. He cracked three eggs and dropped them onto the sizzling griddle.
The Aussie put his order in and pointed to the carafe of coffee and bottled juices.
Feeling the alcohol-caused dehydration, Lassiter took three bottles of water as well as a cup of steaming coffee.
First-class all the way. Like the big bastard said.
They walked over to the table and Milton introduced the others.
“This is Leo Cameron, our project coordinator.” The Aussie smiled. “The man responsible not only for this excellent breakfast but also all the state-of-the-art equipment we’ll use.”
Lassiter shook the man’s hand, which felt tepid and moist.
“These lovely ladies are Dr. Consuelo de la Cruz.” The darker-complexioned woman’s head moved in a fractional nod and her eyes expressed no more interest than seeing a bug on the sidewalk.
He pegged her as either Mexican or Costa Rican. He extended his hand but she ignored him and picked her coffee cup up.
“This is Kathy Fitzgerald.” Milton indicated the blonde. She smiled pleasantly. “The good doctor’s nurse. We also have a team of paramedics who’ll accompany us.”
Fitzgerald did shake his hand. She was pure Stateside Irish.
The man lowered his big frame onto a chair and the plastic squealed in protest at the weight. He indicated the chair opposite.
A loud fricative noise came from the porcine-faced man’s table. It sounded like an exaggerated imitation of someone breaking wind.
Lassiter gripped the chair’s back and turned to Milton.
“John Boy, has all the equipment been loaded?”
Milton’s eyebrows twitched ever so slightly, and a smile crept over his lips. “As a matter of fact, it has.”
“Then we don’t need the forklift operators anymore?”
“I was about to dismiss them,” he confirmed.
“Let me handle it.” Lassiter pushed the chair against the table and strode over to the table where the man sat with his three buddies.
“Hey, fat boy,” he said. “I couldn’t quite hear you from across the room.”
His adversary’s jaw twitched and he studied him carefully.
About thirty feet away, Armand and Pierre took notice.
“Get outta here,” the forklift driver muttered finally
and the tip of a pink tongue darted over his lips. “Before I kick yer ass.”
His three companions glared but said nothing.
“Do you remember what you said before?” Lassiter asked.
“Huh?”
“You said, anytime.”
The man’s mouth gaped slightly.
“Anytime has arrived.” He picked the man’s coffee cup up. Without warning, he poured the contents onto his lap. His opponent bounded to his feet and swung his right ham-like fist in a roundhouse arc toward Lassiter’s head.
He had waited for the guy to throw the first punch and simply leaned back and let the fist sail past. As he straightened, he slapped his open left palm against the man’s forearm and spun him forward. In follow-up, he pivoted and delivered a hard right to the gut and caught the liver squarely. His opponent took half a step forward before his jowly face sagged and he sank to his knees.
One of his cohorts stood and balled his fists.
Lassiter delivered a rapid left jab to his face and followed with a straight right to the tip of his jaw. The mandible snapped downward at an unusual angle and the man fell forward onto the tabletop and scattered the plates, bottles, and cups onto the floor.
He stepped back with his hands in a fighter’s stance and looked at the final member of the trio. “Do you want some too?”
The last man shook his head.
“Good,” he said. “Now, get this trash out of here.”
The other man’s head nodded in assent.
A few tables over, Armand and Pierre grinned. The former gave him a thumbs-up in a salute.
Lassiter returned to his table as Consuelo de la Cruz stood and began to move toward the melee.
“That was a disgusting exhibition of toxic masculinity,” she said. “How badly are those men hurt?”
“Nothing a couple of weeks in traction won’t cure,” he said easily. He moved to sit at the table. Kathy Fitzgerald’s blue eyes were as wide as saucers.
“Kathy,” Cruz said. “Come.”
The dutiful nurse stood and accompanied her boss to the wounded, who shook off any attempt of assistance from the two women. The men glared at him as they limped toward the door.
