by Bobby Adair
“Okay. That’s okay. It’s just that it’s been two days and you’re still in Kenya.”
“Maybe.” Austin smiled. “Like I said, we might be in Ethiopia.”
“Austin, I can’t delay that plane forever. You don’t know what I’m going through to put all this together. I can’t just call in a plane and have it show up whenever you and Mitch find your way through Ethiopia. Is there a village nearby, somebody you can stop and ask directions?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m sorry. I’m frustrated and I’m worried.”
“I know,” said Austin. “It’s late here, like two or three a.m.”
“I know.”
“We’re wanting to cross the border at night, just in case. But if we can’t get it sorted out in the next hour or so we might hide the truck under a tree or something and sleep. Try again when we have some light in the morning.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” said Olivia.
“Yeah, I think all we’re doing is burning gas and driving in circles. Maybe we’re both so tired from sitting in this damn truck that we need some real rest.”
“You should do that,” said Olivia. “I’ll do what I can on this end. Don’t push too hard to get to Lemonnier. I don’t want one of you to fall asleep at the wheel and get in an accident. Get some rest, okay?”
“I’ll talk to Mitch. We’ll give you a call again in the morning.”
Chapter 32
Angry again. Two days had passed since Jimmy promised the SPAM. Despite Larry’s initial ambivalence, the more he thought about that salty, greasy, pink meat, the more he craved it. Anything but the small portions of crap they served him from the camp kitchen.
But two days had passed. Larry had packed and shipped plasma just as he was supposed to do. And no SPAM. Jimmy’s promise got emptier each day. Larry wanted to believe Jimmy’s lies and the dreams. He wanted to believe in that mansion on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
He opened the side door to leave the warehouse.
“Hey.”
Larry jumped back a step, startled by the voice in the dark. A flashlight blinded him. He covered his eyes. “What? Who?”
The light angled away from Larry’s face and pointed at the ground. All Larry could see were spots.
“It’s me.”
“Captain Willard?”
“Yep.”
Larry glanced over his shoulder into the darkness of the warehouse interior. “You already checked everything, right?”
“Yep.”
Larry’s heart skipped a beat as his hands clenched the heavy box of books he carried in front of him, another beneficial trade from Millie, not Jimmy. Still, the books were there in his hand. He needed to lie. “I—”
“Whatcha got there?”
Larry looked down as he panicked. He shook his head as if to deny the box’s existence.
Captain Willard stepped up close to Larry and flipped open the box’s flaps. “Books?”
Larry nodded, unable to produce an intelligible word as panic froze his brain.
Willard fingered his way through the books on the top layer. “New?”
Larry nodded again.
“We didn’t check these in.”
“No. Um.” Larry struggled. “We missed these. I—”
“You what?”
Good question. Larry didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t come up with a lie fast enough. He looked at the books again.
“Contraband?” Willard stepped back and shined the light into Larry’s eyes. “You smuggling?”
Larry shook his head with all the vigor required to confirm the lie.
“Yeah. Go back inside.”
Larry didn’t move. Inside the warehouse, right in the middle of the floor, he knew lay a box of empty plasma bags—those untracked plasma bags. The box was sitting in the open, near the door where Millie’s truck had unloaded. Larry cursed himself for not hiding it before hauling the books out. He cursed himself for a long list of mistakes. He glanced toward the east fence where the orange light of the day’s burning bodies glowed against smoke rising into the night, and his panic rose again on a wave of imagined punishments.
Chapter 33
Captain Willard followed Larry back into the warehouse. He put Larry in a spot on the floor about a dozen feet from the box that contained the untracked and empty plasma bags. In his straining fingers, the box of books grew heavy but Willard hadn’t given Larry permission to put it down.
Willard walked over to the box of empty plasma bags still on the floor. With a hand on the butt of his sidearm, he knelt down, opened the box, and peeked inside.
“What do you suppose these are doing here?”
Captain Willard already knew the answer to that question. Larry saw that clear enough on his face, heard it clear enough in his tone. No lie Larry could come up with could explain that box, at least not one that would last past the first scan. Once Captain Willard compared the barcode on any of those bags with the inventory, he’d see a discrepancy.
Then it occurred to Larry. Somebody had ratted him out.
Who?
Larry’s brain strained as he sorted through all the insults, all the bad deals, all the people inside who might despise him. It had to be someone inside. Nobody on the outside had a reason to turn him in. Not even his crooked partner, Jimmy. Not Millie. Everybody on the outside was profiting from his position in the camp.
The rat had to be inside.
But why now?
Things had been fine for months. What had changed?
Shit!
Only one thing had changed.
Larry had told that fucker Paul about the sick kids. The lie had worked on the other plasmapheresis techs. It was a dependable, well-rehearsed lie.
But it wasn’t the lie that was at fault. It had to be that Paul guy. He’d turned greedy. Or maybe he was greedy all along. He was productive. He turned out more product than nearly all of Larry’s other techs combined. Obviously Paul wanted a better deal and he’d decided to make it on his own with the help of Captain Willard.
Paul, that two-faced bastard, had put Larry in this position. Paul, that piece of shit, had screwed Larry.
Larry’s anger simmered and then boiled away the fear that had been threatening to wet his pants while he watched Willard look through the evidence of his guilt while he thought about the punishment that awaited after the humiliating was over.
With his elbow cocked out and his hand gripping his pistol in a show of just how anxious he was to use it, Captain Willard stood up and walked over to Larry. “Here’s how this is going to go. I know what all this is. You know what all this is. Judging by how many empty bags you have in the box there you’ve got a pretty good little operation running here. How many times a week do you get a box that size?”
Larry looked at the box. “I…uh.”
Willard slapped Larry so hard across the face that the box of books dropped to the floor and broke open. Larry stumbled back and fell down with stinging in his cheek, a tear in his eye, and ringing in his ear.
“Don’t lie to me. You want me to toss your ass in a cage with the other volunteers and have one of the techs drain you dry? Is that it, Larry? You got a death wish?”
Larry shook his head.
“Lie to me one more time and that’s what you’ll get. One more victim. One more body burned with the trash. Nobody’s ever going to miss a piece of shit like you.”
Larry glared at Captain Willard as he got back to his feet. He wanted to spit in the Captain’s face. He wanted to punch him in the gut and stomp on his chest. He wanted to shove a knife up that pinched ass.
Willard slapped Larry again, knocking him back to the ground. “You put that stink eye on me one more time and I’ll gouge it out and shove it up your ass. You need to decide how this is going to go you skinny shit and you need to decide right now.
Larry’s eyes were on the floor and his head was spinning as he watched a rivulet of blood drain from
his mouth and onto the concrete. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry what?”
Larry felt the weight of his wiry muscles sagging on his brittle bones. He felt shame. His defiance was gone. Stolen by a few slaps. Why did the meatheads with authority up their asses run the world? Larry hated Captain Willard just as he’d always hated his teachers and his principal and his guidance counselors and his probation officers, the guards in the jails, the cops always giving him tickets and hauling him off, the whores who turned away and sniggered even when he waved his money in their syphilitic smiles. He hated Paul what’s-his-fuck. He hated Millie and he hated Jimmy. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s right. Sir. Don’t forget it.”
Larry nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Stand up. Explain to me what you’ve got going on here. Tell me every detail. When you’re done, if you’re a good boy, I’ll decide how much of your little enterprise you get to keep and how much you’ll pay to me. It’ll be your tax and I’m the tax collector.”
Larry made a promise to himself: if he got out of the shit he was in with Captain Willard, Paul was going to pay.
Chapter 34
Hadi rode in the first truck, leading the other four through the desert. They avoided cities and most small towns. They used roads where they could to gain time. But time wasn’t a problem. They’d crossed the border from Saudi Arabia into Iraq an hour before and were ahead of schedule. If they had no major setbacks, Hadi and his convoy would arrive on the southern shore of the Caspian Sea three days before his appointment with the Russians.
All was going well.
It was time to give Najid an update. Hadi made the call.
Chapter 35
Mitch was behind the wheel.
Austin was taking a turn in the passenger seat, losing track of how many days and nights they’d been in the truck. He rubbed his sleepy eyes.
“Morning,” said Mitch.
“What time is it?” asked Austin.
“Six local time. Or a little after.”
The truck rumbled over some rough pavement, and Austin looked at the tumbledown shacks of a ghetto just east of the road. Nothing moved there except a dog scavenging through a mound of garbage by a wall. Then he noticed pillars of black smoke to the northeast. “What’s that?”
Mitch looked at Austin, said nothing, and then glanced at the smoke. “Olivia called earlier.”
“Earlier?” Austin looked east. The sun was just over the horizon. “It’s the middle of the night in Atlanta. How long ago?”
“An hour.”
Austin looked on the floor for a bottle of water he’d left there before falling asleep. He got a bad feeling. “What’s the smoke over there have to do with Olivia? Is Djibouti burning?”
“Not the whole country. We’re in Djibouti, by the way. We crossed the border a little while ago.” Mitch pointed a little north of where the smoke was rising. “The city’s that way.”
Austin looked northwest at buildings in the distance and clusters of smaller structures closer to the road.
“That’s Balbala over there. A suburb.” Mitch glanced back at the smoke. “That’s Camp Lemonnier.”
Austin straightened up in his seat and stared at what he was guessing was the destruction of their destination. “What happened?”
“One of the Somali warlords crossed the border last night. He brought a pretty big militia with him. A couple of thousand men and heavy weapons.”
Austin shook his head. “With Ebola killing everybody they can still come up with a force that big?”
“Yeah,” said Mitch. “They hooked up with a jihadi outfit from Djibouti and coordinated the attack on the base. Nobody was expecting it.”
“How bad?”
Mitch looked at the smoke. “Don’t know.”
“Is the base still there?”
“The Somalis retreated but did a lot of damage. The jihadists don’t have any trouble recruiting suicide bombers these days. Any zealot with symptoms can take a shortcut to paradise by strapping a bomb across his chest.”
Austin looked at the smoke.
Mitch said, “The base got hit pretty hard with Ebola already. They were down to twenty-percent strength.”
“Twenty percent?” That seemed like a silver lining. “All Ebola survivors?”
“I doubt it,” said Mitch. “Olivia’s information wasn’t that detailed. My guess is they’ve got some survivors and a lot of guys who haven’t caught it yet.”
“How big is the base? How many soldiers?”
“Marines mostly. Three or four thousand I think. At least before, you know.”
“So, six or eight hundred.”
“Some Air Force guys too, I guess. Contractors. CIA.”
“Busy place.” Austin turned around in his seat to reach back for the cooler that contained their diminishing supply of food. “You hungry?”
“Grab me something.”
“Why the CIA?” asked Austin. “Is that normal in this part of the world?”
“They fly drones out of Lemonnier.”
“Drones?” Austin scooted around in his seat and handed Mitch a granola bar. “Like the stuff you see in the news? Those kinds of drones?”
Mitch shrugged. “Is there another kind?”
Chapter 36
Mitch turned off the highway onto a road that led to Camp Lemonnier’s front gate. A wall that paralleled the road was missing a wide section. Blackened cinder blocks and a deep crater attested to how the wall had been breached. Pieces of metal—presumably the car that carried the bomb that blew the wall—were all over the place. Two craters of a similar size pocked the road ahead, one near, one almost at the gate itself.
Along the road, cars and trucks were riddled with bullet holes, some large, some small. Black-skinned bodies lay on the ground, more numerous than the pieces of the cars, but just as twisted and broken as the steel.
An amplified mechanical voice commanded Mitch to stop.
Mitch glanced at Austin. “At least our guys still have the camp.”
Austin looked at the walls and the carnage at the gate far ahead. “At least one guy does.”
“Don’t be a cynic.” Mitch half smiled.
“Out of the vehicle,” the voice commanded.
“Move slow,” said Mitch. “Leave your rifle. Put your hands in the air.”
Austin wanted to protest but realized immediately what a childish impulse that was. If he were behind the walls and had lived through the night as the Marines had, he’d be as insistent on security measures.
Mitch stopped the truck and killed the engine. In slow, deliberate movements, he got out of the driver’s side. Austin did the same, copying Mitch, raising his hands into the air, slowly turning in a circle to allow the Marines to see him in total.
“Nationality?” the voice asked.
“American,” Mitch shouted across the distance.
A few moments passed.
“Will they turn us away?” Austin asked.
“If you were them, would you?”
Austin chuckled, surprised he could see the dark humor in the possibility. “I might.”
“Yeah.” Mitch smiled as he looked around at the dead. “I might, too.”
“Walk forward,” the voice commanded. “Keep your hands raised.”
Mitch walked, looking at Austin as he did so. “There’s your answer.”
Maintaining a gap between him and Mitch, Austin proceeded forward.
They passed fly-swarming bodies of the dead, stinking from torn torsos and spilled stomachs. Rot would come soon enough. Most of the cars still burned and the skeletons inside smoldered the last of their charred flesh away.
“When we get up there,” said Mitch. “Do what they say. It’ll be cool.”
“You hope.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Stop.” A Marine in full battle gear including a gas mask stepped out and pointed a rifle at Austin. “You first.”
Austin walked forward.
“Stop.” The Marine made a twirling motion with is finger. “Turn around slowly. Lift your shirt. Let me see.”
Austin lifted his shirt, which had been hanging over the belt and holster holding The General’s pistol.
The Marine tensed. “Put the gun on the ground. Slow.”
“I forgot I had it on.” It seemed like a stupid excuse no matter how true it was. The pistol had been on his hip since the morning he walked out of the rebel camp after The General had died. It had become a natural extension of his body. Austin reached down to unbuckle the belt. He bent over and lowered it to the scarred pavement.
“Any other weapons?”
Austin thought about whether to mention the knife tucked into his boot. It was there as a secret weapon. Just in case. But these were the good guys. “I’ve got a knife.”
“On the ground.”
Austin leaned over and took the knife out of his boot and laid it by the pistol. He straightened up. “Nothing else.”
The Marine waved Austin to step past him and ordered Mitch to come forward.
Once past the gate, Austin saw a dozen Marines, some just inside the wall, a few taking cover behind what was left of the gatehouse, others behind fortifications further inside.
“Over there,” one of the Marines ordered.
Following instructions, Austin leaned against the inside of the wall. He was thoroughly frisked by a man with gloved hands while others stood back, weapons at the ready. Once that was done, Austin stood up straight and turned around.
Mitch was led to the interior wall on the other side of the entrance.
A Marine came up with a thermometer and scanned Austin’s forehead. “Any symptoms?”
Austin shook his head.
“No fever?”
Austin shook his head again.
“Have you touched or been near anyone with Ebola?”
Austin nodded. “Everybody in Africa has Ebola.”
The Marine looked at the thermometer reading and turned to another Marine. “Normal.”
“I had it, but I got better.” Austin thought that might help his case.
“Had it?” the Marine in charge asked.
