by Dave Edlund
Chapter 11
September 26
Chernabura Island, West Side
The muzzle blast was deafening, and Murph instantly collapsed to the floor. Professor Savage had been seated closest, his back toward the door. He was looking over his shoulder when the visitor shot Murph. The professor jumped up and rushed to the marshal’s limp body. He felt for a pulse, but there was none, and he could tell by the large bloody pool in the middle of the man’s chest that he was dead.
Troy Davis had also reacted immediately, erupting from his seat. The chair was propelled into the kitchen and Davis went the opposite direction to the door as he was drawing his Glock pistol. He had reacted with lightning speed—the product of the best military training, extensive combat experience, and youth. But he was not fast enough. Davis was four feet from the door and his pistol was just coming up from his holster when the blond man turned his gun, inches away from Davis’s face.
The blond man didn’t have to say a word—there was no possibility of misunderstanding at all. Davis froze. Professor Savage and the others were speechless—on the verge of shock. Then, the door opened wider to reveal six men dressed entirely in black. They all had wicked looking MP5 submachine guns.
“My name is General Ramirez,” the lead man said. He was six feet tall and had black hair and a thick black mustache. He looked a lot like the late Saddam Hussein, but younger. He could have been Hispanic or Middle Eastern or even Mediterranean; it was hard to tell.
In fact, Ramirez was a veteran of the terrorist organization FARC. He had been born in Colombia, and along with his twin brother Vasquez, orphaned at the age of six when their parents were killed, caught between the Colombian soldiers and armed gunmen working for one of the local drug lords.
Ramirez never found out who shot his parents. The fact that they were dead and that he and his brother were alone in a very cruel and hard world was all that had mattered to him. After scavenging on the streets of Medellin for almost two years, fighting every day to survive, the twins were taken in by FARC rebels. They became family.
The brothers received food, shelter, clothes—and protection from the street thugs who preyed on the homeless and helpless. When they were twelve, both boys were sent to a series of Palestinian- and Syrian-run training camps. They also spent a year in Yemen, learning from al-Qaeda the art of making improvised explosive devices for maiming and killing civilians. By the time the Ramirez brothers were young men, both were very adept at killing. But what made Pablo and Vasquez Ramirez especially effective was that they enjoyed it.
“I see you have met my associate, Mr. Smith,” said Ramirez, referring to the blond man. “Mr. Smith—kindly relieve the marshal of his weapon. I don’t think he will need it any longer. His mission to protect these people is over.”
Brad stepped forward and squared off with Davis, pushing the barrel of his pistol against Davis’s forehead.
With a look of dark malevolence, Davis growled, “He was my friend—and before this is over you’re gonna pay.”
Brad smiled but didn’t say a word. He viciously whipped Davis across the face with his pistol. Davis staggered, dropping his Glock and falling to one knee. Brad’s arm was cocked, ready to deliver another blow.
“No! Stop!” yelled Professor Savage.
Ramirez raised his hand, and Brad stopped.
Four of the men pushed into the cabin and spread out, leaving one comrade on guard in front of the cabin with his back toward the door. Ramirez leaned over and picked up Davis’s Glock, tucking it into his belt.
“Sit down, Professor,” said Ramirez.
Professor Savage moved slowly to his chair, never breaking eye contact with Ramirez.
“Do you know me?” asked the professor.
“Oh yes, we know who you are. And you,” pointing to Sato-san, “must be Professor Kenji Sato.”
Sato-san nodded slowly.
One of the black-dressed men emerged from the rear of the cabin, where the bedrooms were located. He was a big, muscular man and, unlike the others, he was clean-shaven. Speaking with a heavy accent—probably Indonesian or maybe Filipino—he reported to Ramirez. “There is no one else in the cabin. The only weapons we found are two shotguns—Henri took them outside—and those antiques on the wall above the door,” he pointed above the front door.
Ramirez turned his gaze and was contemplating the black-powder rifles when Professor Savage interrupted his thoughts.
“What do you want? Why did you murder the marshal?”
“I appreciate your inquisitive nature, Professor, but I am asking the questions.” Although his words were pleasant, his face was stern, and he fixed his eyes on his prisoner. Professor Savage felt the cold black eyes of his captor, and he lowered his head, preferring to look at the plank flooring.
Having dismissed the antique rifles, Ramirez gazed around the dining room, making a point of counting people. “One, two, three,” he counted slowly and deliberately, “four, five, six, seven.”
Ramirez paused and all eyes were on him. “I count seven—plus your dead marshal makes eight. We are missing one man. Where is he?” he asked Professor Savage.
“You murdering bastard,” Ian responded. “Everyone is here! What do you want with us?”
Ramirez rested his right hand on the Glock pistol tucked under his belt. He took a deep breath and then slowly let it out, as if to emphasize that his patience was being tried.
“Don’t take me for a fool, Professor Ian Savage. We know who you are and what you are here for. My men have conducted a thorough recon of your cabin and your team. One man is missing. Now, where is he?”
“If I were you, I’d fire your men. They do a lousy job. I told you, everyone is here.”
“Mr. Smith spent all of yesterday watching you and your team from a concealed location in the forest. He has reported the presence of one woman and eight men. Now, I see the lovely young lady and seven men. Where is the eighth man?”
Professor Savage turned to the blond man named Smith and glared at him. Through clenched teeth he replied, “Smith, or whatever his real name is, obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about. There is no eighth man!”
Ramirez slowly drew the Glock 9mm pistol from his waist and looked at it, considering his next move.
Professor Savage was afraid to hear what that next move might be. He said, “Look, your men have searched the cabin. No one is hiding. We are the only people here!” He sounded almost as if he was pleading.
Ramirez contemplated the professor for a moment. Then he said, “As you wish. Henri, take everyone outside,” and he waved his hand toward the door. Henri had helped himself to a piece of bacon and was just finishing it.
Davis was still sitting on the floor next to his fallen partner. He was cradling his aching head in his hands, trying to clear the fog. Everyone else was sitting around the table, any interest in food long forgotten. In the briefest of moments, they had all been violently thrust into an unbelievable nightmare.
“Get up! Get up!” Henri shouted and used his machine gun for emphasis.
No one wanted to be the first to rise. Daren and Harry stared at each other, then at Karen. Junichi looked to Sato-san for guidance. “Get up!” Henri said, this time louder. He kicked the chair Professor Sato was sitting in and grabbed him by the collar, pulling up. Sato-san rose from the table. The others slowly followed.
Ramirez said, “Ortiz, Kwok, you go out first. If anyone tries to run, shoot them.”
Ortiz and Kwok shared a glance and smiled, and then they turned toward Ramirez and nodded. Both men were nothing more than sadistic thugs who relished killing. Ortiz and Kwok swiftly walked out the door and spread apart about twenty yards in front of the cabin. They held their submachine guns at the ready, the shoulder sling holding the weight of the weapon. Professor Savage had no doubt they would kill without hesitation or remorse.
Henri encouraged the group to move, poking first Sato-san in the back with the barrel of his gun, then Daren.
They walked out in single file. No one dared speak. Harry was the last of the students to walk out, followed by Ramirez and Brad Smith.
Professor Savage was being guarded by a single man as he was trying to help Davis up. It was pretty clear that Davis was hurt—Smith had hit him hard with the pistol. Already Davis’s left eye was swollen almost shut and it was turning an ugly shade of blue and yellow. His nose was likely broken as well; a smudge of bright blood was beginning to dry above his lip.
“Jalil! I want everyone out here!” ordered Ramirez.
“Yes, General!”
Jalil kicked Davis in the leg. “Get up!” He motioned to the door with his gun.
The Professor put his left arm around the marshal and helped him to his feet. “This man is hurt. He needs medical attention!”
Jalil yelled, “Out! Out!” He poked Davis in the ribs with the gun barrel.
“I’ll be all right,” said Davis, slowly moving for the door.
Professor Savage glared at Jalil. Then a thought came to him. Maybe he could do something. Only Jalil was left in the cabin, and Ramirez and his men were occupied with everyone else out in front of the cabin.
As Davis stepped through the doorway he paused, squinting his eyes, the light shooting knives of pain into his skull. The professor thought fast. Jalil was getting agitated. He wanted the professor to move out with the others. He was motioning with the machine gun, finger on the trigger. Professor Savage hoped the guy wouldn’t squeeze too hard in excitement and shoot him.
He was slowly moving toward the door, with Jalil just off to his right and a half step behind him. Now that Marshal Davis was on the porch, Jalil relaxed a fraction, letting his guard down for a moment. And a moment was all that the professor needed. As he reached the door, he suddenly twisted to his right and pushed Jalil hard, catching him off balance. Jalil lost his footing and stumbled, letting go of his grip on the MP5 to catch himself.
Professor Savage swiftly reached above the door and grabbed the first thing his hands touched—the .58 caliber Zouave rifle. He spun toward Jalil and cocked the exposed hammer at the same time. As he brought the long barrel to bear on Jalil, Professor Savage pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. He felt no mercy—moments earlier he had seen these men murder Jack Murphy in cold blood.
The large room reverberated with an incredibly loud and deep boom. Not like the sharp crack from a modern gun, but much deeper, more like fireworks, or an aerial rocket. At the same instant, a huge cloud of gray smoke from the black powder charge filled the room and momentarily obscured Jalil. The room reeked of sulfur.
At first, Professor Savage was not positive he had hit his target—then the smoke thinned and he saw Jalil on his back. His face was a grim mask of agony and he clutched the middle of his abdomen.
The huge, soft lead slug from the Civil-War-era rifle had slammed into Jalil’s body with devastating effect. The bullet passed through him and lodged deep in the log wall on the far side of the room near the rock fireplace. With no time to aim, the shot entered Jalil just below his rib cage. The lead bullet had exploded Jalil’s diaphragm and then severed his spine. He lingered momentarily before succumbing to his fatal wound.
At first, Ramirez and his men thought that Jalil had shot the professor. Davis had turned, but did not advance toward the door. He recognized that the sound wasn’t the same as the report from the 9mm machine gun. And then the gray smoke slowly drifted out the door.
Ramirez ran toward the door, shoving Davis to the side. Henri followed but stayed on the front porch, guarding Davis. The remaining men stayed outside surrounding the academic team.
Ramirez stepped through the open doorway and ducked just as the professor swung the butt of the rifle toward his head. He was holding the heavy, single-shot rifle like a large club, wishing it had been fitted with an authentic 18-inch-long Civil War bayonet.
The momentum of the swinging rifle forced Professor Savage to twist further to his left, allowing Ramirez to recover. He raised his right leg and kicked the professor in the stomach causing him to double over, dropping the Zouave rifle. Then Ramirez brought down his pistol on the professor’s head, crumpling him to the floor.
“Henri!” shouted Ramirez.
Henri entered the cabin and saw Jalil dead on the floor. Next to him was the prone Professor Savage, moaning softly and moving his hand across the back of his head, a smear of blood visible between his fingers.
“Drag him out of here,” Ramirez growled.
“Yes, General.” Henri grabbed Professor Savage by his left arm and yanked him across the floor to the door. The professor rose first to his knees, then his feet. He groggily walked out into the sunlight.
Karen rushed to Professor Savage and examined his head. The scalp was split, but the blood had already begun to coagulate, matting with his hair. Only time would tell if he had a concussion.
Ramirez turned a fierce gaze toward one of his team. “Kwok. You searched the cabin and reported there were no weapons. How do you explain the firearm our resourceful Professor Savage managed to produce?”
Kwok was nervous and worried. General Ramirez had a violent temper and he did not want to be on the receiving end if the general lost it. “I’m sorry sir. We only found the shotguns and the antiques above the door. I showed you—I didn’t think they would shoot.”
Ramirez quickly closed the distance to Kwok and pressed his pistol against Kwok’s forehead. Cocking the hammer, he yelled, “If you ever make a mistake like that again, it will be your last. Do you understand me, Mr. Kwok?”
Kwok was terrified. He was shaking. He nodded ever so slightly and mumbled, “Y-yes, General.”
“Good. I’m glad we have an understanding, Mr. Kwok.” Ramirez lowered the pistol but kept it in his hand.
Satisfied that he had made his point, he returned his attention to his captives who were huddled in a tight group surrounded by Ortiz, Weasel, Henri, and Kwok.
“Ortiz! Search the woodshed and the other outbuildings.”
“Yes, General.” Ortiz left for the woodshed located 50 feet to the left of the cabin. In addition to holding firewood, the shed housed the diesel generator and tools for cutting and splitting firewood. A large electrical cable connected the generator to a small service panel on the exterior wall of the cabin.
Ortiz searched the woodshed but did not find any weapons or, for that matter, anything of interest—only a stack of split firewood, a seven-kilowatt generator, some fuel cans, and hand tools. He turned his attention to the old outhouse. Upon opening the door, he was hit by the strong ammonia-like odor; it was empty save for two rolls of toilet paper.
Completing his circle around the cabin, he returned and reported to General Ramirez. “There are no other outbuildings. No weapons, other than two chain saws and three axes in the woodshed.”
“Are you sure, Ortiz?” asked Ramirez.
Ortiz understood the implications of that brief and simple question. The general would not tolerate any more mistakes. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. And the root cellar?”
“The door is secured with a heavy steel bar and lock. We could probably shoot it off, or maybe the hinges.”
Ramirez thought about this but decided to reject the suggestion. It was very likely that the seismic charges and detonators were locked away in the cellar, since they had failed to find them elsewhere. But it was also highly probable that some of the bullets would pass all the way through the wooden door. He could not risk a stray bullet striking the detonators.
Professor Savage had regained his composure, even though his head hurt like hell. He still did not fully comprehend what was transpiring. “What do you want from us?” he asked.
“I want to know where you are keeping your seismic charges, Professor,” replied Ramirez.
The professor was jolted at how much these men knew about his team. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied. “Our objective is to gather geological specimens.”
“
Come now, Professor. You must realize by now that I know very well what your mission is. You are conducting a series of seismic surveys of the underlying strata, in addition to collecting your specimens.
“Now, I will ask again, where are the explosives?”
Sato-san’s face remained expressionless, hiding his growing fear. The students—Karen, Junichi, Daren, and Harry—were bordering on shock, having witnessed so much physical violence and murder.
Davis was regaining his strength. The swelling of his left eye had ceased; fortunately it had not swelled completely shut. He drew strength from his training—that and his determination to avenge the brutal murder of his partner and friend. He stayed close to Professor Savage—waiting, watching for an opening.
Professor Savage gritted his teeth. “I don’t know what you are talking about. We don’t have explosives.”
“Ortiz, Kwok, Smith. Did any of you find a crate of explosives during your searches?”
All three men shook their heads no. “No, General,” said Ortiz.
Ramirez was showing signs of losing his patience. He sighed deeply and walked up to Professor Savage, stopping inches away from him. He locked eyes with the professor, and neither man blinked. “I like to think I am a fair man. I know all about your mission here. I know you purchased 50 pounds of seismic charges; our agents in Anchorage confirmed this. Now, I want those explosives. I think they are in the cellar. Is that where they are?”
“You are nothing but a murdering bastard,” replied the professor.
“True, but beside the point,” said Ramirez. “Give me the key to the cellar.”
“You can go to hell.”
“Ortiz! Search the professor and the rest. Bring me their keys.”
Professor Savage handed his keys to Ortiz and then raised his hands as he was patted down. Davis, Professor Sato, and the students did the same.
Having quickly sorted out car keys, Ortiz was left with only six remaining keys that could possibly fit the lock on the cellar door. “Take these and see if one opens the lock,” ordered Ramirez.
