by Arno Joubert
The baobab provided cover from the elements; no one would be able to see the flame from his gas stove. He had a clear view of the surrounding area. A dry riverbed ran along the edge of the hillock; with some digging he would have an ample supply of water.
Roebuck lifted his eyes to the horizon. He had a clear view for miles in the cool morning air. Bryden had left his camp late last night and Roebuck had followed. He headed in the direction of the poachers who had set up camp two miles from them. The place was lit like a beacon in the night; he had seen it clearly from his own vantage point.
Bryden had disappeared behind some brush, and then the crack of gunshots as Bryden eliminated them. They were amateurs. The cigarette coal was visible in the dark from a mile away. Now their campsite was deserted, embers still smoldering on the ground.
Colonel Roebuck glanced at his watch. 5:45 a.m. He dialed a number and waited for the call to be answered. “Metcalfe? Roebuck here. He took out José last night.”
Metcalfe kept silent for a moment as if contemplating what to do. “All right, Colonel. Take care of him. How far away is he from your exact location?”
Roebuck looked up, estimating the distance. “About three hundred yards. I’ll phone you back when he is dead.”
“Good. Wait another fifteen minutes before you proceed. Perreira needs to send a recovery crew,” Metcalfe said and disconnected the call.
Metcalfe disconnected and punched a number on his phone. It was answered after one ring. “Captain Babbitt, this is Senator Metcalfe. How is Suzy doing?”
The man seemed glad to hear Metcalfe's voice. “Senator, very well, thank you. She’s recovering well after the skin graft. The doctor said that the burn wounds would look fine after a couple of months and another graft. Thank you for the donation to our charity.” He hesitated for a moment. “I was still meaning to call and thank you personally,” he said apologetically.
Metcalfe leaned back in his chair. “Never mind, Captain. It was my pleasure. The Burn Foundation is a cause that is close to my heart.” He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “Captain, I need your help to do some good as well.”
“Anything, Senator,” the captain answered without hesitation.
“I need you to take out a poaching ring for me. My undercover man has planted a beaconing device in their area. I will give you his exact coordinates. This operation will be authorized by me.”
“No problem, Senator.”
The man sounded keen to pay back his debt. Good, these military types were so predictable, strong moral code and all.
“When will you need to do this? And where?” he asked.
Metcalfe scratched his chin. “In fifteen minutes, lower part of the Kruger National Park."
"That's not a problem, Senator. I have some F-15s on standby in Swaziland. We can be there in ten minutes,” Captain Babbitt answered.
Metcalfe smiled and nodded. "Excellent, Captain. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, Senator?”
“I need you to take out an area of five hundred yards around the beacon. I want to get rid of the entire gang and the contraband that they have with them.”
Captain Babbitt went silent. Metcalfe heard him breathe. “We recently received a shipment of IFB-500s. I could set it for low impact detonation, which would make the kill-zone radius about a mile,” he said, his voice sounding hesitant. “But everything in that area would be annihilated, including animals and plants.”
Metcalfe cupped the phone and chuckled, then took his hand away. “I understand, Captain. It was a difficult decision, but it’s all for the greater good.” He sighed. “Collateral damage, Captain.”
“Very well, Senator. Thank god I don’t need to make the decisions.” He chuckled. “I will warm up the burners. We should be there in ten minutes.”
“Excellent, Captain. Godspeed.” Metcalfe disconnected the call. He shook his head in amazement. These military men with their codes of honor and false morality drilled into them by years of brainwashing. Sock puppets, each one of them.
Roebuck lowered the binoculars. The hair stood up on his neck. Something wasn’t right.
Metcalfe seemed preoccupied; he wasn’t as involved in their smuggling ring anymore. He had confronted Metcalfe a couple of months ago. Without Metcalfe’s oversight, things were going wrong. Supply routes closed. Business was slow. Roebuck hadn’t received his regular payment for more than a month.
And now this Bryden mess. Metcalfe should have stepped in a long time ago.
No, Metcalfe was busy with something else, about that he was certain. And they didn’t want to let him in on it. He was sure Callahan and Perreira knew what it was all about. He would get Perreira to square up to him after he had completed this mission.
Their phone conversation bothered him as well. The pause? No, there was something else. Why did he want to know how far Bryden was from his location?
He lifted his gun and studied Bryden through the scope. The man was packing his supplies and weapon into the hollowed-out trunk of the gigantic baobab tree, then he closed the opening with some branches.
Bryden travelled light. A backpack with binoculars and a camping stove. A couple of bottles of water. He was sweeping the ground in front of the tree with a leafy branch, then he scattered some pebbles and sand around the entrance.
Bryden peered up the hillock, then marched in Roebuck’s direction.
“C’mon Bryden, come to papa,” Roebuck whispered, steadying the crosshair on Bryden’s chest.
Bruce Bryden turned around and lifted his eyes towards the sky, and then Roebuck heard the F-15 Strike Eagle roar over his head. The plane made a graceful arc, the jet propulsion engines leaving a white contrail in the clear blue sky.
Then the fighter jet changed course and headed straight at them. A missile dropped from the side of the aircraft, and orange flames spouted behind the projectile as the turbojet propulsion system kicked in.
“What the hell?” Roebuck shouted as he jumped up and ran, fumbling for the memory stick in his pocket.
Metcalfe’s phone rang and he snapped it open.
“Yes?”
“Senator Metcalfe. Captain Babbett here. The mission has been completed.”
Metcalfe grinned. “Excellent, Captain. I knew that I could rely on you.”
The man hesitated. “The impact zone was somewhat larger than we anticipated, probably about a mile and a half.”
“That’s fine, my boy. I will deal with it. We’ll coordinate some cleanup crews.”
“Senator, we didn’t see any poachers, only a single soldier. And another guy running for cover,” Babbett said.
Metcalfe paced around the room. “They were probably in hiding. Did you get both these men that you saw?”
The captain chuckled. “Without a doubt. Your cleaning crew will be scraping them off the rocks and trees.”
Metcalfe smiled. “Excellent,” he said and disconnected the phone.
Now that is how you kill two birds with one stone.
Bruce looked towards the glint on the hillock above him. Last night, the soldier had tried to follow him, but he probably wasn’t used to the terrain. It was easy to lose the man in the dense riverine bush.
He then waited until 3:00 a.m. and followed the soldier's tracks from the dry riverbed, up the hillock to where the man had set up his own campsite. He had to give it to the man, he travelled light. The soldier had nothing but his weapon, slept out in the open. He had no distinguishing insignia or rank, but he wore a US Marine uniform, the type issued to soldiers in the jungle. The soldier had set a trip wire to alert him of movement close to the camp, but it had been set off, probably by bush rodents, and the soldier hadn’t bothered setting up another.
An M16 with a mounted Hightech scope had been propped against a sapling. It was an awkward weapon to use in the bush, not accurate beyond a hundred and fifty yards, long and unwieldy. The man came to the bush with what he had in his locker; his prep time was less than satisfactory.
Which could be fatal in the bush.
Bruce had removed the firing pin from the rifle then reassembled it in less than a minute. The man now had a bludgeoning tool, if he didn’t notice that the pin was gone. And you usually didn’t carry a spare.
The glint from the binoculars beaconed the man’s position once again. Now would be as good a time as any to find out what he wanted. Bruce trudged up the hill towards him.
He looked up as the F-15 screamed towards them. It looped around and fly back their way. When the aircraft was four hundred yards away, it released a missile, the projectile’s flight path aiming over his head.
Bruce made some quick calculations. He had about eight seconds before the missile hit. He bolted away from the impact zone, which he guessed was about two hundred yards south of him.
Bruce scurried down the hill, slid on a rock and fell, breaking his fall by going into a tumbling roll. He bounced to his feet and stumbled headlong towards the baobab then scrambled into the opening, turning his back to the opening and bracing his head as he lunged inside.
The tree shuddered from the initial dull detonation. A moment later an ear-splitting explosion shook the tree violently, breaking and tearing into the branches, as if they were being mowed down by multiple flying circular blades. Tree limbs came crashing down on top of him, and the air was thick with dust and leaves floating to the ground.
He waited a couple of seconds then pushed away the broken branches and crawled out of the opening. The entire landscape was a scorched black dustbowl. Broken branches hung limply to the sides of damaged trees. He dug a slug out of the bark of the Baobab with his knife and examined it.
Bruce recognized the damage done by the IFB-500, developed by Israeli Military Industries. It was an antiquated version of the bomb being used by the US Air Force.
It was a fragmentation bomb containing more than twelve thousand steel balls. And it was lethal, built to eliminate ground troops and munitions. He was fortunate to have made it back to the baobab.
He jogged up the hill towards the impact zone. Blood splatter and shreds of uniform were the only evidence that another soldier had ever been there. He found the M16 fifty yards away. The scope had been cracked by a metal pellet, but otherwise it was undamaged. He noticed a glint another twenty yards away, hunted through the undergrowth, and collected a silver USB memory stick from between the grass. Bruce made his way back to his shelter, removed the magazine, and dumped the rifle inside the baobab.
Alexa received an SMS from Laiveaux, which made her day. Bruce was OK. The general informed her that the previous day Callahan had made a phone call she might find helpful. He sent her a message containing the URL to the recording. She clicked on the link and opened an archive of recordings. She listened to the first one.
“Temptations, good day. This is Carrie speaking,” a friendly female voice answered.
“Mr. Gardo, please.”
“Please hold on while I transfer your call,” the friendly voice answered.
After two rings someone answered. “This is Gardo.”
“Good day, Mr. Gardo. This is David Callahan from Bellevue drive. Nurse Angelique missed her weekly visit yesterday.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is there a problem that I am not aware of?”
Gardo cursed. “Yes, you hurt her, you sack of shit. You can be glad I didn’t come over there and beat the shit out of you.” The man spoke with a heavy Irish accent. Alexa had to rewind and listen to the conversation a couple of times to understand what the man had said.
“Please, Mr. Gardo. Do not make idle threats.”
“I don’t threaten people, Mister—”
“I want someone here tomorrow. I’ll double the money.”
“I don’t like my ladies getting hurt. My business suffers when my merchandise is out of order.”
“I’ll triple it.”
There was a pause. Gardo was thinking about the offer. “Quadruple it. And no more funny stuff.”
“Deal. When can I expect the replacement?” Callahan asked.
“I need to make some calls, source somebody according to your . . . special needs,” Gardo answered.
“Well get it done. I need to satisfy my—as you call it—special needs.”
The call was disconnected.
Alexa punched a number on her phone to her travel agent. “Hi, I need to book a flight to Dublin.”
Dublin, Ireland
Alexa adjusted the blonde wig and touched up her lipstick in the rearview mirror. The guards at the gate had expected her and let her straight in. She climbed out of the rental and popped the trunk then removed a trolley containing an oxygen cylinder and mask. She hauled it over the cobbled driveway and up the steps to the front door of Callahan’s mansion.
Alexa gave herself a final look-over in her makeup vanity, undid the top button of her nurse’s outfit, and rang the doorbell. Footsteps scurried towards the door and it swung open. An elderly gentleman wearing a black tuxedo appraised her with a frown. “The new nurse, I presume?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
Alexa nodded and smiled sweetly. “That’s me,” she said, chewing her gum.
“You’re early. Master Callahan is enjoying dinner, but he is expecting you,” he said haughtily, then he swiveled around stiffly and walked down the impressive foyer. “Follow me.”
He led her past a marble stairwell and down a passageway, their footsteps reverberating through the hall. The walls were lined with photographs and stuffed animal heads, Callahan posing with a smile next to each sullen specimen mounted on the wall. The butler stopped next to an impressive double door, plastered a wisp of thinning hair over his scalp, and opened the door with a flourish. “The nurse is here, Master,” he announced with a bow.
Callahan looked up from his dinner, the table laden with silver cloches, china, and cutlery. “Ah, nurse, you’re early.” He stood up from his chair and walked over to the leather sofa, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Come, please sit.”
Alexa smiled sweetly, sauntered over and took a seat, revealing a black garter belt beneath her short, white dress. “I’m sorry that Nurse Angelique couldn’t attend to you,” she said.
“Ah, yes, yes, the agency told me about her accident. You were told of our, ahem, arrangement?”
Alexa nodded. “As long as the money is good.”
“Of course. And what is your name, dear?” Callahan asked as he pulled some bills from a roll in his pocket. He handed them to Alexa and dismissed the butler with a jerk of his head.
“Let’s keep it simple,” she said, fluttering her eyelids. “Call me Angelique.” She stood and straightened her dress that had hitched up high on her legs. “Should we start?”
“Sure,” Callahan said with an excited grin, his eyes darting over her body. He seemed pleased.
She made a show of preparing the oxygen mask and fiddling with the dials. She removed the mask and placed it over Callahan’s mouth and nose then hitched up her dress above her panties. Callahan smiled as she straddled him.
He grabbed her bottom. “It’s delightful to have someone new.” Unbuttoning Alexa’s shirt, he slipped his hand inside and squeezed her breast.
Alexa smiled, waiting for the gas to take effect.
Callahan’s eyes widened, and he tried to rip the mask from his face, but Alexa held it in place. “Good night,” she said and stood when Callahan’s head lolled to the side. He was out cold.
Callahan’s eyes opened and he shook his head. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands had been tied to the armrest of the chair. His eyes darted to the cannula inserted into his vein. He looked back at Alexa, a deep furrow on his brow. She stood causally in front of Callahan’s liquor cabinet, running her finger down the rows of bottles.
She glanced over at Callahan. “You’re awake. Fancy a drink?”
“Who are you?” Callahan asked, shaking his head groggily.
“Suit yourself. I’ll choose.”
She pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker
Blue from the rack and unscrewed the cap, poured the whiskey into a resealable, clear plastic bag, and attached it to an intravenous drip stand. She wheeled it towards Callahan and attached the bag to the IV pipe in his arm.
“What are you doing?” he asked, straining backward to see over his shoulder.
“Killing you. Alcohol poisoning.”
“Why?”
Alexa removed her wig. “My birth name was Rebecca Cohen.”
Callahan’s jaw dropped. “But how?” His eyes flitted around in his head, trying to process the information. “You disappeared—”
“I joined the French Legion. Received a new identity.”
Callahan shook his head slowly. “Laiveaux?”
Alexa nodded.
Callahan propped himself up in the chair. “Come closer, girl, you look just like your father.”
She sauntered towards him, leaned close to him, and locked eyes with him. He was regaining his composure, his lips curling up slowly as he nodded. Then he spat in her face. “I should have killed you like we killed that bastard father of yours. Your tits are just as small as your mom’s, you anorexic bitch.”
Alexa stood back, wiping the spittle from her chin with the back of her hand. “Naughty boy.” She adjusted the IV bag’s drip control to its lowest setting.
She went back to the cabinet, removed a bottle of Hennessy cognac, and refilled the bag. “They say you shouldn’t mix your alcohol.”
“Screw you, you skank. Worthless-piece-of-shit whore!” he shrieked, trying to kick out at Alexa.
Alexa sat on the sofa and folded her legs beneath her. She watched him dejectedly as the expletives rolled from his lips. After a while, his face paled, his breathing becoming more labored. He swallowed hard and shook his head, his bald skull gleaming with sweat.
