Sabotage

by C. G. Cooper

  The game comprised of promising one thing to get another. The deal McKnight had made had been a test, an act of good faith, so that his potential patrons could determine if he was worth working with, that he was a man of his word but of utmost importance they gauged if he would do anything it took to win.

  McKnight had supplied Jim with the information, location, and had even found out what type of aircraft the secret operators would be flying. He had insisted that the operators not be harmed. He hadn't explained why, but in his foreseeing way he knew there was an opportunity there. Sure, they'd probably be tortured and interrogated, but a couple guys from Delta Force were tough enough to handle themselves.

  "Tell me what happened," McKnight said.

  Jim looked around once more making sure no one was in earshot. Then he grinned again. "It was just like you thought. They got eyes on, tracked the plane and jammed their communications. They got smart and used an explosive on the side of the plane instead of trying to shoot them down. You know those savages; they probably couldn't shoot the Goodyear blimp out of the air."

  McKnight waved the racist comment away. "Just get to the point, will you?"

  Jim had a way of stretching out their brief meetings, like the more words he imparted the more McKnight was going to pay him, even though a long time ago they'd agreed to the total sum.

  Jim scratched his stubbly chin. "They reported seeing one body thrown from the plane before it came down. They think it might have been the stewardess."

  "And the soldiers, what happened to them?"

  Jim ignored the question. "Once they were on the ground, militia forces engaged the target."

  "Tell me they didn't shoot them."

  Jim shrugged slowly. He was in no rush to get to the punchline. If they hadn't been in public, McKnight might have grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and shaken him. Maybe a couple slaps would do him some good.

  Then Jim said, "Both pilots were killed."

  "And the soldiers?" McKnight asked again.

  Now, Jim frowned. "Well, that's the damnedest thing. Wouldn't you know, as soon as the troops went in to get them, a downpour started. They actually explained it was some kind of monsoon, that they couldn't see anything, and by the time it cleared the two guys were gone. They're looking for them as we speak."

  McKnight felt his chest tighten. He'd expected good news, had seen it in Jim's eyes, but he'd been fooled. The relationship had been contingent on the operators being captured.

  "Where does that put us with our friends in Beijing?" McKnight asked, then realized he had asked the question a little too quickly. He didn't want Jim knowing that he was worried. He added, "Not that they can renege on our deal now."

  Jim gave a slow shrug, as if the details didn't matter. "They're pissed off, of course, but they're blaming the men on the ground for not finding them. You're off the hook for that part, but they did insinuate that the full amount wouldn't be delivered until a package arrived on their doorstep."

  "What do they want me to do," McKnight grilled, "fly to Africa to find them myself?"

  "That's way above my pay grade, Congressman," Jim said. "I suggest we sit tight and let the militia goons find them." He gestured his head over to the bus. "Shouldn't you be on your way now? Your schedule shows your next stop is in thirty-seven minutes."

  McKnight was about to ask the man how he knew that specific detail, but then he saw that Jim's eyes were twinkling. He was yanking his chain again. Despite his discomfort, McKnight grinned, held out his hand, and said loudly for anyone nearby to hear, "Thank you again for coming, sir. I look forward to your vote in November."

  Chapter 4

  Vince Sweeney recalled hearing once that water was the great equalizer. In his professional opinion, he’d always thought it was snow and ice. There were plenty of tough guys that, once they got plopped down on the top of a snowy mountain, would cry for their mamas and quit.

  He’d never minded the cold much, but then again, he'd always packed the appropriate gear to keep him warm, and his athletic lungs hadn’t ever had much difficulty acclimating to the high altitude. But now he had a new understanding of the toughness of those crazy SEALs and the training they endured—spending days in the water, ringing that bloody bell in Coronado. Cold and wet was his new hell. It wasn't that he was about to quit. He was far from that point, but the last thing he'd expected in Africa was to be cold and wet. It probably had something to do with the exhaustion and dehydration. His body was more susceptible to slight temperature changes; it was imperative to find shelter and rest soon.

  "Did you happen to pocket an extra bottle of whiskey before we disembarked the plane?" Karl asked. His voice was low in the darkness, and Vince could barely see his friend next to him so deep was the smoky night.

  "No," Vince said, "But I've got a couple Cubans, if you want one."

  Karl chuckled and Vince thought he detected a shiver in the man's laugh; so he was feeling it too. Though neither he nor Vince would complain, but good God, was it cold. They'd both stripped down to their boxer briefs, tying their pants and shirts around their necks. They might not need them now, but once they got back to civilization, they'd need to look a little more presentable.

  Luckily, they hadn't seen a soul for hours. They'd headed for the salt-engorged lake, thinking they'd skirt the edge and make their way as far as possible from the downed plane. Vince felt bad about leaving the two dead pilots, but there was nothing they could do about that now.

  Karl froze, his hand in the air, head pointed forward. Vince stopped to listen, his eyes trying to peer through the dense fog. It wasn't raining anymore. The only sounds they heard, other than their own voices, had been the sloshing of their boots through the mud and wet underbrush.

  "Did you hear that?" Karl asked.

  Vince shook his head. "No. What was it?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe a—. Wait, hold on."

  Vince sensed more than saw Karl crouch down. Vince matched his movement and then he saw it. Up ahead, there was a faint flickering of light. Not flashlights or anything electric. It looked warm, like the color of the inside of an orange; it was probably a fire. It reminded him of those old stories of southern plantation owners gathering for a manhunt into the swamps, torches lit, weapons ready, as their slaves ran for freedom. It almost made Vince laugh. Now the tables were turned. He was in Africa and he was being hunted.

  Even though unarmed, Vince and Karl were far from helpless. The sight of light up ahead sparked Vince’s senses and made him forget about the cold. He motioned for Karl to go right and he would go left. Suddenly his every movement felt amplified ten times. The sound of the splashing hit his eardrums like fireworks. He did his best to keep the sloshing to a constant ripple, and he wondered if they were making the right decision to go toward the light instead of away from it. But Vince’s instincts screamed—if they were going to get out of this mess, they needed help, and help might be sitting next to that burning light.

  Maybe they'd get lucky and stumble across peasants out for a midnight stroll, but what they really needed was a telephone. Luckily it seemed like ninety percent of the Earth's population carried around a cell phone, so it wasn't crazy to think that they might be able to borrow or steal one. The light up ahead flickered and disappeared; it took Vince a moment to realize the fire wasn't gone, but as he moved around, a small hill came between him and his objective.

  Good, he thought. There wasn't much cover and any he could find was a welcome stroke of luck. The terrain finally opened up and Vince saw the origin of the flickering light. It was a small hut; it appeared more as a collection of rags pulled over taut sticks than a real shelter. As the clouds shifted, and the moon cast down an eerie glow, he saw that the hut was perched on the water’s edge. From where he stood, it didn’t look like a permanent structure. It was not a home for a family but a shack up on stilts to protect nomads from the elements.

  He glanced to the right for his twin shadow, but he didn't see Karl. Maybe he hadn'
t made his way around yet, or maybe he was already there. It would've been better if it was raining to make the approach and conceal their movements.

  Vince was careful now, each step measured, and then he heard voices. No, not voices, he corrected himself as he stopped to listen. He heard one voice, repeating something over and over. So he kept going, and as he closed the gap, he realized it wasn't talking. It was some sort of chanting or maybe singing. He imagined an old sunbaked man sitting in the hut, preparing his nets or hunting spears, mindlessly singing some old family song, whiling away the hours until the weather allowed him to resume his humble trade once dawn approached.

  Then the wind shifted and the smell of roasting meat made Vince's stomach rumble. And that was why, a moment later, he was caught off guard at the sound of a snap of a twig to his left, followed by a curse.

  Vince froze. There was someone coming followed by a shout from the hut, like a greeting or a question in some foreign dialect. A head poked out of one of the rough windows. Whoever approached on his left called back, unaware of Vince's close proximity. A smaller light, he guessed a butane lighter, snapped on. It waved back and forth in the air, as if signaling to the man in the hut that he was no threat.

  In that sweeping light, Vince had seen the boy's face. He was no older than thirteen, maybe fourteen. It wasn’t the skinny physique that concerned the Delta commander, but instead the AK-47 held in the boy's free hand. The man in the hut barked something Vince didn't understand. The lighter went out, and the boy continued on his way. What Vince needed was that rifle; it would at least give him some leverage. He didn't have to hurt the boy, so he slithered in behind the unaware youth and readied to strike.

  He had to be fast and precise, and in the darkness, that wouldn't be easy. As a modern operator, he’d been spoiled with the latest night vision technology or at least a barrel mounted flashlight. Tonight he'd have to do it the old-fashioned way, the way his father had done it in Vietnam.

  He was only four feet from the boy when a commotion erupted from the shanty. There was a clanging of pans, a yelp of pain, and the boy sprinted forward. Vince's hand caught nothing but air as he reached for the boy, who was too quick for his lunge. The kid was smart enough not to say anything, but rushed in without regard for his own safety. Vince was close behind and thought that he might reach the boy before he climbed up the ladder. Then he recognized a voice from above.

  "I'm not going to hurt you, okay? Just take it easy," Karl was saying, but that only made the boy climb faster.

  Vince had no choice but to yell up to his friend, "Tango inbound. He's just a kid." More noises from above could be heard as Vince leaped up to the fourth rung of the ladder and managed to grab the boy's bare foot. But the size nine foot was slick with mud, and it slipped right out of his grasp. The boy kept going, dashing right into the hut, weapon leveled and ready to fire.

  Chapter 5

  Karl tensed as the boy with the AK-47 slipped inside the hut. The Delta operator had one forearm securely against the old man's throat while his other arm encircled the man’s torso. The guy was all sinewy threads; strong, but not strong enough to shake off Karl.

  The kid came into the hut sweeping his gun, like he'd done it before, or maybe it was just the way he’d seen it in the movies. His eyes swept from the old man to the enemy holding him. The old man said something sharply, and he replied. Karl thought it might have been French, but the only French he knew was from half a semester during his high school sophomore year. But then he had gotten kicked out for fighting with Fitz Manzurela, so it was understandable that he didn't comprehend anything during the rapid exchange. What he did understand was the muzzle pointed straight at his head.

  The kid moved back into a corner, and a moment later Vince climbed into the room, hands over his head — the international sign that he meant no harm. The old man said something again, but this time the boy didn't respond. Karl could see that he was quite comfortable behind that gun. His finger wasn't resting on the trigger, but straight and off, like he was still considering whether or not to shoot.

  Vince moved a step closer and that's when his finger shifted to the trigger. "We mean you no harm," Vince said slowly.

  Karl stared at the boy, expecting a confused look, but instead he detected a slight cock of his head, like he was more intrigued than confused.

  "Who are you?” the kid asked in nearly perfect American English.

  Well, I'll be damned, Karl thought.

  Maybe they'd gotten lucky. But the AK-47 was still pointed straight at Vince and the lad showed no sign of backing down. In fact, his eyes looked even more intense now, like the sound of English had lit a spark to a tangle of anger smoldering in his chest.

  Karl took a chance and released his hold of the old man. Instead of running to the boy, the old man turned and nodded his appreciation, like Karl had just served him a cup of tea. More words were exchanged by the two dark-skinned companions. Then the kid asked, "Are you Americans?"

  Vince nodded and waited. Experience proved that could either count for or against you. While some of the world loved Americans, there were just as many who would kill you just for being alive.

  "Yes, we're Americans," Vince confirmed. He lowered his hands to his sides.

  "You sure don't look like any Americans I've ever met," he countered.

  It took Karl a moment to realize what the kid was talking about, and then he almost laughed when he realized what he and Vince actually looked like. They'd been running around in the muck wearing only their boxers and boots. The remainder of their clothes were tied around their necks. Yeah, they were a sight all right.

  Karl smiled and the boy finally lowered his weapon.

  "What are your names?" their captor asked.

  "I'm Karl, and the ugly one over there is Vince."

  He nodded and was smiling now like the whole thing was one big joke, although just a moment ago he'd been pointing a loaded weapon at two trespassers.

  "My name is Christian," the boy disclosed, "And this is my grandfather. Am I correct in assuming that you're the two men that escaped the plane crash?"

  The blunt question startled Karl. Vince looked at Karl who shrugged as if to counter, "What have we got to lose?"

  "Where did you hear about the plane?" Vince asked.

  "A little bird told me," Christian announced.

  Karl could see that the boy was enjoying the spy saga. "Hey," Karl said, "You want to tell me how you learned to speak English so well?"

  Christian glanced at his grandfather, who nodded. So the old man knew English, but maybe chose not to speak it. There were a lot of those in third world countries, the ones who would only speak in their native tongue but understood every single word you said. Stupid Americans thought they were dealing with stupid peasants. Karl knew from experience those peasants were far more cunning than they were given credit for.

  "I've gone to school in the States since I was five," Christian explained. "When I'm there I live with a family in Arkansas and go to a private school just outside Little Rock."

  "Ah, so you're a Razorback fan," Karl concluded. "I'm more of a Crimson Tide fan myself."

  Christian shook his head in what looked like exasperation. "Maybe if LSU got their stuff together they could knock Nick Saban off his high horse," Christian said.

  That made Karl laugh. "You ain't so bad, kid. I'm sorry we ran into you like this."

  Christian shrugged like it didn't matter. "I spend my holidays here with my grandfather." Christian shouldered his weapon and took a seat on the ground. "So now that we're all friends, would you like to tell me how you happened to crash land in the middle of Djibouti?"

  Vince and Karl exchanged a questioning look. Karl wondered if Vince was thinking the same thing. Who would have thought a kid like Christian would be the one calling the shots? He was dressed in shabby clothes, like a thousand nameless nomads Karl had seen over the years, but his eyes were somehow clear like he understood the world better than the rest o
f them because of what he'd seen and experienced. If this was how Christian chose to spend his spring breaks, Karl bet he could teach a million spoiled American teenagers a lesson or two in toughness.

  The Americans sat down across from Christian as the grandfather produced a large, clear water bottle and passed it to the men. They drank in deep swallows, relishing their first sips of fresh water in hours. Karl coughed after one particularly long swig, and his chest felt like it was on fire. He covered his mouth to stifle the cough, but he couldn't stop coughing.

  "You okay?” Vince queried.