by Ted Bell
“I’ll be all right. Get this damn tank off me. And slice off a piece of that hose there and tie it off above my elbow. Tight. Tourniquet one-oh-one.”
“Like this?” Luis said, cinching it with his teeth.
“Yeah, you got it. That’s good but tighter.”
Stoke tried to get to his feet but it didn’t work. He was in serious danger of blacking out. He lowered himself to the deck, rolling over on to his back. The sky was blue above and he tried to focus on a single white cloud that hung just above their stern. It was blurry but maybe that was just the cloud. He saw Luis Sr. up on the flying bridge. Papa was just sitting up there with his back to the wheel, staring down into the cockpit with concern on his face. Nothing a skipper hates worse than human blood running in his scuppers.
What was everybody so damn worried about? It was just a scratch. Problem was, the tourniquet wasn’t working too good. When you had arms the size of piano legs, normal-sized things didn’t fit too well.
Luis sliced another two-foot section and wrapped it tight around Stoke’s arm, cinching it in tight above the first tourniquet and tying it off. The blood flow instantly slowed way down.
“There you go, bossman, that’s better.”
“You got the pictures?” he asked Luis.
“Every angle. I even got the cockpit and the pilot. I told you, man. I told you I had something down here. You see those damn missiles?”
“Yeah. You got something worthwhile all right. Remind me to give you and your daddy a bonus when I get home. Now listen up, Sharkey. I need you to get on the VHF and talk to the Coast Guard. First, get me a GPS location to give to them. Tell them to send a chopper or a cutter out here immediately and—what’s your problem?”
“You look inside that pilothouse? The old man doesn’t exactly have the latest technology aboard this boat. I tried to give him a handheld GPS for his birthday and he nearly killed me. You crazy? he says, I never been lost a day in my life.”
“You got a radio, right? He’s got to have a VHF radio.”
“Yeah, yeah, we have a radio.”
“Good. Go get the chart. Let’s figure out exactly where we are. But get the Coast Guard on the radio and tell them what’s going on. National security, got that? Let me just lay here a minute and I’ll come in there and talk to them.”
“I’ll check the chart, then call,” Luis said, getting to his feet. “You stay right where you are for a few minutes. You don’t look good. Hey, you want some rum? I keep a pint in the fish box.”
“I don’t drink. But I’ll make an exception. Yeah, give me a hit of that stuff. Might help if you poured some on my arm.”
Sharkey reached inside the box and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Bacardi. Luis was handing it to Stoke when he got shot.
Stoke had heard the muffled crack of a serious gun. At the same time he looked up and saw Luis spin around, blood spraying from his right shoulder. What the hell? Luis kept spinning around, arms spread out like some wounded paraplegic ballet dancer, trying to figure out where the damn bullet had come from.
“Get down before he shoots you both in the head!” he screamed at Luis Sr. on the flying bridge.
Two more rounds thudded into the thick wooden topsides. Harmless, but for sure attention getting.
“Shit, man, I’m hit! My good arm!” Luis said, dropping back down to the deck. “Damn! Where is he? Where’d that shot come from? I didn’t see anybody.”
He started to raise his head above the gunwale, but Stoke grabbed his belt and yanked him back down, looking at his shoulder. Just a scratch, a little red furrow in his skin.
“Stay down, damn it! And tell your father to do the same!”
“Look at him, man, he’s a sitting duck up there on the bridge! If he comes down that ladder, he’s dead.”
“Yeah, so tell him to stay put and stay down. Maybe the shooter can’t see him up there because of the angle. Tell that old man to sit tight up there and keep his head down.”
Luis shouted words to that effect in Spanish. His father nodded his understanding and then smiled down at Sharkey.
“Courage, my son,” the old man said in English. “God helps those who trust in him. He can save us if he will. Nothing is impossible to him. But if he thinks it is good to call us to him, do not be afraid. We will not be separated.”
Stoke just looked up at the scrawny geezer and shook his head. You never knew.
“Where’s the shooter, boss?” Luis asked, the two of them peering over the gunwale.
“Got to be that little island over to port,” Stoke said. “See? Where all that debris is washed up. I thought I saw something moving over there just before we splashed. Shit! You got any weapons on this boat?”
“Yeah. We keep a gun up forward, under Papa’s berth.”
“Pistol or rifle? Say rifle.”
“We got semiautomatic rifle. It’s mine. Special stock and grip so I can fire it with one hand. A Ruger mini-14. Mags hold thirty rounds.”
“Perfect. I want you to go up there and get it. But you stay down below the gunwales, Luis. I don’t want any heroics here. Just go forward and get me that gun.”
Sharkey crawled on his belly toward the open door. Stoke hadn’t liked the look on his face. The kid was obviously scared shitless.
In case Luis needed any more incentive to keep his head down, the shooter fired two more rounds and took out the portside windows in the pilothouse, showering the two men with bits of glass. The shooter was either a lousy shot or he had a shitload of ammo and didn’t care. In any case, he had to be dealt with in a hurry. Stoke did not want to pass out and leave Luis and his father to deal with this alone.
Two minutes later, Luis was coming back with the rifle and a soggy cardboard box full of shells. His hand was shaking so bad, when he handed Stoke the ammo, the whole thing disintegrated and all the cartridges spilled out all over the damn deck. What were you going to do? Luis was his partner and he was getting some high-level on-the-job training, that’s all. Call this the live fire exercise. Stoke checked the chamber and the mag. Loaded.
“Hey, I got it,” Luis said. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. This way I don’t have to get shot again.”
“Think of what?”
“We just split, man!”
“Split?”
“Leave! Papa’s up there at the helm! He cranks her up and we split. Leave this bastard out here to rot in the sun. Fuck him, you know?”
“What about the hook?”
“You mean the anchor?”
“Yeah, I mean the anchor. Who gets to go up on the bow and stand there to haul up the anchor? Papa? You?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right, the anchor. Man, I forgot all about that.”
“You got to think this stuff through under pressure, Luis. Business you’re in now.”
“Right. So what do we do?”
“I’m thinking about that. Give me a second, I’ll come up with something.”
“Just keep me out of it,” Sharkey said.
23
LA SELVA NEGRA
S turdy hemp bridges had been built connecting the numerous roundhouses that comprised Muhammad Top’s domain. The largest of bridges was the one that spanned a ribbon of black mirror snaking through the middle of La Selva. This bridge spanned the river and was built of steel.
The river was named Igapo, Black Water, and it fed into the great Rio Negro. The Igapo divided the Top’s fortress compound neatly in half. It provided a natural boundary for the two discreet sections of the terrorist village. The river also formed a very necessary lifeline with the outside world. Save an isolated airstrip or two, camouflaged and hidden deep in the jungle, it was the only way in or out of his world. A vicious stretch of rapids protected the approach from the east. And seamines had been deployed to both east and west.
Top had chosen this site carefully. La Selva Negra had to be erected where no man would dare to venture, even if he were able. First, because of the canopy, it was com
pletely invisible from the air by day. At night, strict blackout rules were enforced on the odd chance that an airplane would ever stray over this trackless expanse.
No drones or spy satellites would ever differentiate this green patch from the trackless millions of acres that surrounded it. Because of the great height of the trees, even thermal imaging could not accurately pick up the living creatures below. Yet here below the canopy lay another world entirely. A world of his own making.
A primary village, Centro, stood at the center of this hidden universe. Arrayed around it, over a span of many miles, like great orbiting moons, were the various camps. Military camps where his troops lived and worked. And also secret training camps and forced labor camps that sustained his armies and protected the center.
And then the river. Although dark in color, the waters of the Rio Negro and its tributaries, like the Igapo, were pure, in fact, very nearly distilled. Because of its extremely low salt content, the river had the softest waters of any large river in the world. But that’s not why he chose this exact location. His sensibilities were too refined for that. No, it was just here, at this precise location, where the waters ran deep and cold, here, that the low nutrient content and the high acidity so greatly decreased the number of biting flies and mosquitoes.
Papa Top was a passionate man, but he was also a supremely pragmatic being who happened to loathe bugs.
The Black Water was spanned by a steel bridge strong enough to support the small, unmanned tanks which patrolled continuously. This bridge, a vital link, connected the two halves of his world. One side was about sustaining life and worship, the other death and destruction. This bridge that connected the two sides of his equation he had named La Qantara in honor of a mythical bridge connecting his beloved homeland of Syria with its neighbors Lebanon, Jordan, and Palestine. Qantara was the fantastical bridge of unity that one day, God willing, he himself would build between these nations.
This mission of Qantara, the bridge of the holy, was his life’s work. But Papa Top had sworn he would only complete it at the end of his life. He would turn to this effort only after he and his armies had rained death and destruction upon his enemies to the north and brought them begging God’s mercy to their knees.
Now the wide, flowing river was quiet beneath the nearly invisible leafy camouflage netting strung above it for miles in either direction. Here in Centro, the primitive existed side by side with the latest technology. Dugout war canoes, rafted together, were moored at the eastern ends of the docks. Later in the day, Indian war parties who served Papa Top would board them to begin patrolling the vast network of tributaries that fed into the Igapo. Intruders were discouraged or killed if they got too close.
Farther along were wider canoes, riding deep in the water and loaded with vegetables and other supplies. They had arrived some time during the night and were still waiting to be unloaded.
SLOWLY, the sleepy village below came to life. Shaded windows glowed faintly with light from within. The proud House Guards, in their uniforms of forest green, streamed across wide bridges and descended by trams to the jungle floor below. There waiting generals and lesser commanders ordered them massed in formation for the drills.
In a nearby clearing could be seen the headlights of a convoy of armored ATVs forming up. This motorized group would be traveling to the airstrip to receive an important visitor when he arrived at mid-morning. His first business of the day was to prepare to receive his honored guest.
Papa Top took great satisfaction that this supremely powerful being, Mullah Khan, was coming to him. Khan, the brilliant Iranian physician and scientist, was making his way on a long journey from Tehran. He would enter the country with counterfeit passports he himself had issued. He would arrive at Buenos Aires and then be ferried to a small air-field on the outskirts of the city. From there he would be flown at treetop level to the concealed landing strip that served La Selva Negra.
“The mountain is coming to Muhammad,” Top laughed aloud to himself, his rumbling voice deep and soft. History in the making. He took one last look at the wheels of his teeming clockwork empire and stepped back inside to dress himself. There was still a great deal of personal preparation to be done before the official reception for the visitor in the Great Room of the Blue Mosque.
Surely today, he thought, gazing at his powerful naked body in a full-length mirror flanked by flaming torches, was the beginning of the most important period of his life. As such, it was a kind of birth. And a man must dress accordingly for such triumphant moments.
Top was a man of oversize features. There was the great head from which gazed his deep-set dark eyes, steady and penetrating. His eyes radiated power and intellect and when they rested upon something or someone, it was as if they could possess all of it, devour it. His skin was dark and yellowish, taut and shiny, like something that had just popped to the surface after some weeks in the river. His head was entirely hairless. There were neither eyebrows nor eyelashes. The lips below the long wide nose were mottled and thick.
His lips opened only when he spoke and then they flared wide, revealing strong, feral white teeth and baby-pink gums. When he spoke in anger, his eyes bulged, more animal than human, and they seemed to blaze with some kind of otherworldly fire.
His great head rested upon a wide and thickly cordoned neck supported by heavy shoulders of epic proportions, the shoulders of a giant. He had no idea how much he weighed and he didn’t care. He knew there was not an ounce of fat to be found. He took care of himself. He drank his cup of bull’s blood every night before retiring. This had been his habit for the years he’d spent in the jungle. He was soon going into battle after all.
He chose a black burka woven with golden thread. He had seen a drawing of such a one in a dog-eared book on the life of Genghis Khan. He’d had his seamstresses copy it exactly. He saw that it draped perfectly over his bulging shoulders. Yes. It was perfection. Now. He would need a covering for his head. A turban of gold? No. Not today. Something far less obvious. Nothing in his wardrobe would do, he feared, until something caught his eye.
Under one window of Papa Top’s spartan room stood a large black wooden cross. A death’s head was painted in white near the base of the thing and over the crossbar were pulled the sleeves of a ragged and torn morning coat, its black tails trailing on the simple wooden floor. Adorning the cross was a battered bowler hat, the top of the cross projecting through a tear in the crown. Around the base the cross, a ring of white and black candles had been burning all night.
This totem, seldom found in the homes of the sons of Islam, was Papa Top’s secret weapon. He had carried it with him all his life. The bizarre effigy had been passed down from his all-powerful mother, a powerful Haitian Voodoo priestess named Mama Top. This totem represented the God of the Cemeteries, the Chief of the Legion of the Dead, embodied on earth in the human figure of Papa Top. In this part of the Amazon, Top was a figure paramount in all matters related to the grave. He was the dark Voodoo god who had long ago conquered the indigenous inhabitants of the jungle, and he still held them in his sway.
Muhammad Top was, of course, a true believer in the all-powerful rule of Allah. He depended on Allah’s guidance in all things. But, being prudent and practical, Top had always thought a man should have a backup religion. The fear inspired by Voodoo served his purposes well. After all, he lived surrounded by noble savages who bowed only to Papa Top.
He placed Papa Top’s perforated black bowler atop his head and gazed into his mirror. Unsatisfied, he cocked it to a more flattering angle, and saw that it was good. He showed his teeth. Flashed his eyes.
Let kingdom come, he thought, and be damned.
Soon, together with powerful brethren from abroad who would be arriving shortly, Papa Top would set in motion the irrevocable doomsday clock of the future.
He would set the clock for January 20 at noon.
High noon, he thought, chuckling to himself, a joke the cowboy in the White House might appreciate.
The Day of Reckoning.
24
MADRE DE DIOS, BRAZIL
H arry Brock woke up in a bed he did not recognize with a girl whose name he could not recall. She had a gun in his mouth. She was starkly naked, sitting astride his chest, her pendulous breasts glistening with sweat in the hot buggy light of morning. He found that none of these things made it any easier to think straight. She was very pretty this girl, and somehow during the night she’d managed to handcuff his wrists to the painted iron bedposts he was now banging against the plaster wall in a valiant effort to free himself.
He vaguely remembered she’d told him she was a nurse in Manaus. That explained a lot. Harry had a thing for nurses.
After a while, he stopped whipping his head from side to side and banging his wrists against the bed-frame because (A) it hurt, (B) it wasn’t doing him any damn good at all, and (C) it felt so good when you stopped. Harry was so happy about being relatively pain-free he tried to smile but found that it was tough to do with the muzzle of an oily snub-nosed .357 scraping the roof of your mouth.
Relax, Harry told himself. Be professional about this for crissakes. It wasn’t the end of the world. It was another of life’s endless lessons. Today’s lesson: stay the hell out of backstreet bars in towns where life was exceedingly cheap and you had a huge price on your head. Stay sober and avoid strange women at all costs, even gorgeous ones.
He took a few deep breaths like he was trained to do, holding each for a count of six, and tried to stabilize his heart, slow everything way down.
Get your bearings, Harry. He was going to say get the lay of the land but he’d already done that. She was sitting right on top of him. Christ, what a woman. He would kill to know her name but he felt at this point introductions would be awkward. Even if she removed the gun from his mouth, what was he going to say?
