The Fifth Battalion

by Michael Priv

  “You know what? Screw that. You’re pissing me off. We’ll just storm your hellhole and beat you till you talk.” I weighed my answer carefully, knowing that too much flippancy with these psychos could earn Linda a bullet in the head. But no, upon brief reflection, I realized that any show of weakness would make the situation worse. I decided to continue pressing from the position of force.

  “Okay. Get your little girlfriends and come on over. You know where I live,” I replied and disconnected.

  The cell phone rang. “Got the money yet?” I asked. “I read your file, Norman. You’re nothing . You’re a nobody. You think you’re Schwarzenegger now ‘cause you got lucky that one time in San Francisco?”

  “I don’t like you, pisshead. No such thing as a nobody. Everybody is somebody, even an ape like you. The price just doubled. Two hundred grand. You have one hour to free Linda and get the money—both. Or you’ll never see me or the stick, and you go ahead and keep the girl. Move your ass, you stupid jug head! Go-gogo!”

  “Okay, but you’re dead meat!” he finally blurted out hatefully. “Likewise, monkey-dick.” I hung up.

  He didn’t object to me calling him a jug head. Must be the military. Made no sense. The cell phone remained silent this time. Whew. How many phone calls did it take to get a simple idea across to these people?

  Linda was safe for now. More precisely, my actions did not make her any less safe. I had additional intel. I knew they were looking for some flash drive, and I suspected they were military. I needed more intel as to what the hell was going on and by whose orders, and I needed weapons, finances, and personnel.

  Heading away from my apartment, I felt certain that I was leaving behind a part of my life forever. No huge loss—except for Yvette. I felt the grief pouring onto me with renewed force. Bastards.

  Sirens blaring, police cruisers sped past me, converging on my apartment building. Somebody was orchestrating this insanity. More sirens at a distance. Turning the corner, I found Vallejo devoid of any foot traffic as usual. I flagged a cab.

  9 The small, two-story medical building on Pacific, where Jane rented her office, was supposed to be empty at this time of the evening, but the entrance door stood ajar and there was light in some of the windows. A black SUV, haphazardly parked next to the fire hydrant in front of the entrance, briefly filled my heart with dread. I pushed open the entrance door slowly with the barrel of my gun.

  The body of a dead cop in black riot gear was lying face down in a pool of blood by the stairs, as I entered the lobby. Must have been shot upstairs and rolled down. I assumed he was a cop but then realized he wasn’t. The SWAT-style attire of the dead man was missing one significant component—the letters SWAT or POLICE or FBI or any indications of that sort. The black assault uniform and the Kevlar on the dead body had no markings of any kind, offering no clue as to his identity. He was certainly not a cop or FBI. Military? The only assumption I came up with was that Jane had shot him, which made him my enemy, too.

  I heard the noises of struggle from upstairs, voices, a scream, furniture being pushed around but no shots. A silencer on the M16A4 next to the body explained the absence of gunshot reports. Silencers. Who used silencers? And why a modified M16 instead of an AR15 that Army used? Because he wasn’t the Army—my best guess. Who was this guy? I set my backpack down and frisked the dead body, glancing around nervously. We needed to know who we were up against. Our only enemies here on P-3 had always been the Guards. We had no quarrel with anybody else. This man, however, was not nearly muscular enough to be a Guard. A couple spare M16 clips, a Glock with a silencer, which I immediately appropriated, a couple of useless flash grenades, and, yes, a wallet—a handsome, youthful face on the California driver’s license, credit cards, this and that, the other thing, some money. I was about ready to throw the wallet aside, when I saw the second photo ID, which stopped me dead in my tracks—a Marine Corps ID, identifying the dead man as a US Marine First Sergeant (E-8) Damien Brikker. Great, Marines, the Special Forces. Confirmed now. That explained the M16, too. What the hell?

  Coming up the stairs with my newly acquired silenced gun on the ready, I heard the spitting sounds of multiple guns and the moaning of another soldier shot several times in both legs, by the looks of it. He was sitting, propped against a wall by the 2ND floor elevator door right in front of me, bleeding. He raised his assault rifle the instant he saw me. I shot him in the forehead and kept moving down the hallway to Jane’s office the direction of all the silenced shooting. I wish I didn’t have to kill this soldier, but, honestly, I didn’t dwell on it.

  A soldier stumbled out from the smoky entrance to the office next to Jane’s, nearly bumping into me. I pushed the barrel of his rifle aside just as he squeezed the trigger, his burst missing me. My knee kick to his groin had proven futile against his battle gear. He shoved me hard; I lost a grip on his vest, but not on my Glock. Propelled across the hallway, I slammed into the opposite wall and shot him twice in the chest, the power of my shots shoving him back into the smoke-filled office. I pushed off from the wall that I struck and lunged at him low, expecting return fire. Return fire I got. Bullets pounded the wall behind me above my head, as I rammed into his midsection with my shoulder. We both fell. His helmet came off, offering a target for a head butt. The position was exactly right, so I took the opportunity to break the seat of his nose with my forehead. Such a head butt should’ve fazed him, but it didn’t.

  We rolled on the floor, kicking the rolling chairs and tangling up in desk legs; I lost my gun somewhere next to the desk. Working on getting a full breath in my chest, I managed to disengage and jump to my feet, my opponent now pointing his own silenced Glock in my direction. There was nothing but hate in his eyes. For an instant it felt as if I were looking into the eyes of my own death. A chill went down my spine.

  An evasive maneuver and his first shot went wide. The rolling chair I threw at him spoiled his aim and next instant I was on top of him again, wrestling his gun from his hand, his enraged eyes huge right in front of mine again. His sudden quick glance over my shoulder betrayed danger from behind. I immediately rolled, pulling him on top of me, his body shuddering and convulsing under the hailstorm of bullets pounding his Kevlar. One of them seared my shoulder—painlessly at the moment. The shoulder went wooden. I expected more shots. Desperate, I groped around on the carpeted floor under the desk in search of my gun. I found a Glock, no idea whose it was, and fired three shots blindly from under the opponent’s body in the general direction of the machine gun fire.

  A hysterical “Fuck!” that followed was a huge relief. Speed was of the essence, I had to take the new attacker out before he had a chance to recover. I pushed the struggling body of my opponent aside just in time to see a Marine stumbling in the door, struck in the Kevlar by one or more of my shots. I shot him in that pale space between the lower brim of his helmet and the top of his Kevlar vest, which I would have normally called a “face” but not right that moment. Right then these were not people to me; they had no faces. They had to be killed, that’s all that mattered to me. I felt pretty good about this one—he was dead now.

  It struck me that the firefight in Jane’s treatment office next door had died down considerably. Breathing with a great deal of difficulty, my opponent sat on the floor, staring at me, his face covered with blood from his broken nose. The half a dozen bullets fired point-blank into his Kevlar-clad back must have felt like being hit by a truck—repeatedly.

  “Fuck you, terrorist,” the Marine spat blood hatefully, reaching slowly and painfully for his ankle holster. “We’re not terrorists,” I told him. “Stop reaching for your gun or I’ll kill you,” I added, watching him grab the rubber handle of a smaller gun strapped to his ankle, his face contorted with pain. He kept fumbling with the holster, staring me straight in the eye, so I shot him in the forehead. Strangely, his eyes were still trained on mine even as he died a moment later. He found his target and wasn’t about to let go of it even in death.

&nbs
p; I felt goose bumps. These people… Jeez… Jane’s waiting room was riddled with bullets—the armchair, the couch, the bookshelves, the cheery floral prints on the walls, the counter, the door—everything. Somebody shot the water cooler, too. It was soaking the carpet now. Carefully, I entered Jane’s treatment office. Her bullet-ridden large desk was turned on its side. She must have used it as the cover. I saw Jane’s legs sticking out from behind the desk. She was missing a shoe. Three bodies of black-clad assailants littered the floor. With a heavy heart I rushed to Jane’s side, afraid of what I’d find and knowing exactly what that would be.

  Blood was trickling from Jane’s mouth. She took several punches in the face, it seemed, and several bullets, too, at least three in her stomach and chest. I didn’t have to be a doctor to recognize the finality of these wounds. Strangely, Jane was alive but unconscious, sucking in the air with difficulty through her collapsed lungs. A deafening unsilenced shot rang behind me.

  10 Bill was standing in the door. His smoking gun was aimed at the head of one of the soldiers, really dead now but still clutching his silenced Glock, pointed in my direction.

  Without a word, Bill ran to Jane ’s side. He dropped to his knees and hunched over her. After a quick glance at her wounds, he looked at me with sad understanding.

  “Thanks,” I nodded in the direction of the dead soldier. Bill did not respond, running his hand gently over Jane’s bloodied and matted hair. Jane’s eyelids fluttered. “Jane!” Bill called out to her.

  I grabbed a small pillow from the floor —Jane kept a few pillows on the clients’ armchair and on the couch. Bill lifted Jane’s head; I stuck a pillow under it. She opened her eyes and tried to say something. More blood came out of her mouth.

  “It’s okay, don’t speak,” Bill said affectionately.

  “You did great. Just rest now,” I said.

  “How does it look?” Jane finally managed, looking at Bill, then at me.

  Bill kept silent, so I replied for him. “Doesn’t look good, Grom. Sorry.”

  Jane made a sobbing sound and nodded her understanding. “Call me Jane,” she whispered.

  I knew that. “Just wanted to make a point. You won’t die.” “Yes, Jane,” Bill whispered back, glancing at me angrily. “You sure made one hell of a girl this time around, you sure did. The best!” Jane smiled. The sound of approaching police sirens filled the room. “Paper… in my pocket,” Jane slurred hurriedly. “Meeting tonight at 10. Go! No, wait!” Jane grabbed Bill’s hand and squeezed it, staring him straight in the eye, “Take care of my family, Bill.”

  “I will, Jane,” Bill promised.

  Jane looked at me. “Norm, get your emergency box. It’s important. Get me a frag grenade. Go now.” She let go of Bill’s hand. “Goodbye, Jane. See you next time,” I said. Bill kissed her bloodied hand and squeezed it one last time. I rummaged through the pockets of Jane’s blood-soaked skirt and came up a small yellow Post-it note folded in half, which I pocketed. Then I ran to the hiding place and knocked out the panel with my foot, not bothering with concealment. The cover was blown sky high anyway. Inside the wall I found the familiar metal lunch box. Among the assorted weapons next to it, I picked an old M33 fragmentation grenade and brought it to Jane. She smiled her thanks weakly.

  Bill and I rushed downstairs. My backpack was right where I left it. In went the lunch box. The police cruisers were upon us, sirens blaring practically outside the door.

  “Where is your car?” I yelled to Bill. “Too far,” he replied. “Come on!” Bill pointed at the black commandos’ SUV at the entrance. He jumped into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the key. The SUV came to life. I took the passenger’s seat. No less than five SFPD cruisers were converging on us from all directions, sirens blaring. Bill rammed through the police cars, speeding up Pacific and away from Van Ness with the cops right behind us.

  “Who are these guys? Do you know?” Bill asked.

  “Marines,” I replied.

  “What? Why the Marines?” Bill glanced at me in confusion. “Don’t know.”

  “What the hell do they want?”

  “Don’t know.”

  A bullet went through the back window and lodged itself in the instrument panel between us. “Jump off when I turn the corner, I’ll cover you,” Bill yelled. “Sort out what the fuck with that meeting Grom was talking about. Go. Let’s get these fuckers. They owe us. Let’s get them good!”

  “Will do!” I promised.

  Bill nodded his thanks, Taking the corner at about 60 miles an hour. “Now!” he yelled. I jumped out and rolled, clutching the backpack. What’s a few extra bangs and scrapes, right? I lunged for the entrance of a wellkept Victorian at the corner. There was no cover except for a small bush. I crouched at the door by the bush, trying to be as small and unnoticeable as possible. Several police cars whizzed past me after Bill, but the last of the cruisers stopped right in front of me, brakes screeching. Two cops jumped out. Two powerful flashlight beams aimed at me. I’d been spotted. Not caring if they had their Kevlars on, I shot them and ran up the street in the same direction Bill had led the posse—a bad direction to run, but I heard more sirens approaching from the opposite direction.

  The blaring siren and the red and blue blinking lights up the street attracted my attention as I cleared a fence between two houses. Probably aware of my situation, Bill made a U-turn, totaling a few of the SFPD cruisers in the process, and was backtracking for me, followed now by only two cruisers. I jumped the fence and stayed low, observing the developing situation in case Bill needed help. Two new cruisers joined the chase, approaching the posse head on. They turned the corner at high speed, the front one colliding with Bill. Bill’s SUV careened into a light pole and then smashed into the house across the street. Bill’s body was thrown out of the SUV. He was trying to get up groggily, covered in blood, his body shaking badly. A police cruiser screeched to a halt in front of him, cops jumping out. With a shaky hand Bill took a wildly inaccurate shot at the approaching cops. His lifeless body collapsed, riddled with bullets.

  My heart squeezed. You died well, my old friend. So much death tonight. This was just the beginning. I ran into an ally between two houses. The backyard I entered had no exit, just concrete retaining walls, compliments of the usual San Francisco hilly terrain. The drop on my right was closed off with a chain link fence.

  Then I heard it, pulling myself up onto the back concrete wall — the grenade explosion maybe half a block away. Goodbye, Grom. You’ve always been a good soldier, but this time around, just like Bill said, you also made one hell of a girl. Sorry, we can’t take care of your family as promised. Bill was dead and I had no idea who they were and where they lived. Very sorry about that.

  Fear gripped my heart. I was alone. Worse than alone. I had to keep Linda alive, too. Nobody else would do it for me. In addition to having almost zero resources at my disposal, I also had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. And Linda… the enemy seemed to have infinite resources. And things were unfolding fast, way too fast, non-stop.

  Well, if I couldn’t retreat, I’d attack. Bring it on, motherfuckers! Many a lifetime in the military taught me this rule number one in life—always have an exit strategy. Always have a Plan B. I now had one, compliments of my hero, my best friend Bill Hall. My Plan B was Eugene, the Russian restaurant owner, the supposed mafia boss, whom I had wanted to help Linda at the Moscone Center. I believed he could help me in other ways, too. I just needed to call him, but for that I had to lay my hands on a burner phone or steal a phone or something.

  I lost my way among all the backyards, fences, fire escapes, flat rooftops, and concrete walls, so I had no idea where I ended up at first but quickly realized I made it all the way to Broadway, crowded and noisy as usual. Getting lost in a throng of silly tourists, I walked into an AT&T store and bought a burner phone with a bunch of minutes. I just needed a safe but crowded place to make a call, preferably far away from here. Union Square would do.

  In the cab on the way to
Union Square, I opened the lunch box. First thing I saw was a small white envelope sitting next to the grenades on top of my fake passport. I reached into the envelope and took out a flash drive.

  11

  I must have passed out in the cab. I dreamed of her. She was not Linda then. Her name was Ursula. We eventually got pregnant, Ursula and I—the happiest day of my life but an incredible insult to her family. I think Ussie was about fourteen or fifteen then. I was the villain regarded with utmost contempt and animosity by her clan. They decided to send for Old Martha, the whisperer, and abort the baby. Fools! Who did these people think they were? They had known my Ursula for just a few short years, and they thought they were entitled to pass judgment and make life-or-death decisions for OUR child?

  In our one-horse cart, we left home with my parents’ blessing and traveled in secret some one hundred twenty miles west to Testerep, a North Sea coastal fishing town—I had an uncle there, Ancelm.

  Uncle Anselm set us up with a room in the communal Big House and got me a job as a fisherman. Ursula stayed home. She had our baby, a big, healthy boy with blue eyes, like mine. We called him Thomas. I’d be away at sea for a spell and then home for a few days. Business was good. In a couple of years, we managed to build a small three-room house on the outskirts, had another baby, a girl this time, little Inez. Ursula kept the house nice. I loved my family. Life was so good, it simply could not have been any better. I thought the wonders would last forever, but the bliss only lasted for about four years. Then—the storm.

  In my dream I relived the horrific events of that tragic day. Our fishing schooner, with a crew of eighteen, was caught by a squall about fifty miles off-shore. Pummeled by relentless wind and freezing rain, we attempted to make it to shore using the jib for maneuverability and the gaff topsail for speed. I saw myself among a dozen others, heavily bundled in oilskins against the freezing squall, climbing the webbing to deploy the sails with my heart pounding and freezing sweat pouring down my face. The unfolding sail kicked hard, sending my friend, Baas, a father of four, plummeting to his death into the heaving frigid sea, his last scream still fresh in my mind’s ears. We didn’t outlive Baas by long. We all died that night in the mess of falling masts, flying rigging and debris, whipping ropes, ferocious winds and waves rolling over the top deck. I saw a white face of old Willem praying to God for mercy, hugging the stump of what used to be our foremast for his dear life on the heaving deck just as a heavy tackle took out half of his head. The ferocious sea devoured his lifeless body. I had a good grip on the webbing, but the schooner with the masts broken and the rudder rendered useless was but a toy in the hands of Mother Nature. I saw the wave coming, I stared right at it, a forty-foot swell frothing with fury, as it lifted the doomed schooner, crested, crashing the boat, and then capsizing it.