by Jack Tunney
He looked away from the bottles and stared into the mirror along the back of the bar. His bandaged and swollen face stared back at him. He hardly recognized himself and what he had become. But for some reason, he was being given a second chance. A chance to start over.
He'd be a fool if he didn't take it.
There and then, he decided he'd take the job in Sezanda.
TWELVE
Sean Calvin's Card Table, Ragalla, Sezanda, 24 February 1954...
A bottle of Hendrick's 'Red H' rum sat in the center of the green baize card table. O'Toole looked at the bottle like it was his enemy. In some ways it was, but so far he had stayed strong. Donal McGee distracted his attention from the bottle, dealing five cards toward him, and calling the rules for the night's game.
“Okay, gentlemen, the game is five card stud. To make it interesting, jokers, twos and one-eyed-jacks are wild. The ante is a nickel, and the minimum bet is a nickel. Let's keep it friendly.”
O'Toole had been in Sezanda twenty-two days, and the Friday night card game was the social event of the week. McGee had assembled a good team of men, but with Sez So rebels roaming the streets at night armed with clubs and knives, exploring Ragalla by night was risky. Innocent civilians would be routinely beaten for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Americans found it safer to keep to themselves. And thus, the card nights were born.
Despite the Sez So’s name, which would imply they were a socialist group on the side of the people, the name was simply a selling point to attract new soldiers from the poorer segment of the population. The real leaders of the Sezanda Socialist Army were in fact Nazis who had fled Germany at the end of World War II, and were now using the Sez Sos to overthrow the democratically elected government of Sezanda for their own purposes.
Sezanda had some of the most mineral rich land in the world. Precious gems, such as diamonds, emeralds and rubies, had been found high in the mountains, and uranium had been discovered in the south. It was this wealth the Nazis wished to exploit.
Their cover was the creation of the Sezanda Socialist Army, a group designed to appeal to those less fortunate souls who felt they had missed out when Sezanda became more prosperous. The misguided rebels, believing they were building a better Sezanda, were in fact supporting a regime more corrupt than the democratic government they were fighting against.
“Where's your ante?” asked Patrick Reilly, who was sitting to O'Toole's right.
Having been taken under McGee's wing, Patrick been taken on as an on site apprentice, learning the trade from the ground up.
Before O'Toole had left for Africa, Dan Reilly had told him his son Patrick would be a part of the team. He asked if O'Toole could watch out for the boy. O'Toole readily agreed.
O'Toole found Patrick Reilly to be of good character, but the young man was strong-willed and lacking in life experience. He had a tendency to leap before he looked. But working in a foreign country would soon drive that out of him. Overall, O'Toole thought he had the makings of a fine man, and believed it was a great opportunity for Patrick. Being part of an international operation would be a feather in his cap when he returned to the United States upon completion of the hotel.
But on card night, at the table, old habits died hard. Due to his experience in Las Vegas, Patrick considered himself something of a card-sharp.
“Where's your ante?” Patrick repeated.
O'Toole picked up a coin from the pile in front of him, and placed it in the center of the table. Then he looked at his cards. He had drawn worse hands. Ten of hearts, four of diamonds, king of hearts, king of clubs, and the nine of clubs.
O'Toole peered around the table at his opposition. There were five Americans in the game beside O'Toole. Donal McGee was sitting directly opposite. He sat crouched forward with a Lucky Strike clenched between his teeth, and the deck held loosely in front of him.
Seated to O'Toole's left, and clutching his cards close to his chest was Sean Calvin. It was Calvin's turn to host the card night and everybody was crammed into his small apartment. Not that it really mattered as the entire team lived in the same small apartment building.
On the job, Calvin was the leading rigger. As the hotel began to take shape, increasing in height, he was the man for the job. He was fearless, an expert at steel construction, but with a gregarious sense of humor. He was tall and broad shouldered, with fingers like thick bratwurst sausages. His hair was black and tightly cropped. He wore a pencil thin mustache, as if trying to look like David Niven.
The other two men were Owen Green and Sid O'Brien. Both were good workmen and could operate any machinery. Green was short and stocky with a few extra pounds around the middle. At fifty-seven, he was the oldest of the American team.
O'Brien was Green’s physical opposite. A tall beanpole of a man, he looked as if he could snap in half in a strong breeze.
“What'll you have?” McGee asked the players.
“I'm out,” Green said, tossing all five cards down.
“I'll take three,” O'Brien said.
McGee dealt three cards. O'Brien picked them up, his face turning to a sneer.
“What a load of rubbish,” he said, tossing his cards down. He reached for the Hendricks bottle and poured himself a shot.
“What about you?” McGee asked Patrick.
“I'm good,” Patrick said. He let a self-satisfied smile leak across his face. O'Toole noted the smile, and weighed up whether he thought the young man was bluffing or not.
O'Toole then looked at his own hand. He had a few choices. The hard way was to go for a flush, tossing away one king and the four. He would need a queen and a jack - giving him nine, ten, jack, queen, king. But the chances of drawing those specific cards were astronomical. He decided to keep the pair of kings and toss the rest. Maybe he'd get another king.
McGee dealt the cards. O'Toole picked them up cautiously. He had made the right decision. No queens or jacks to be seen. He drew the eight of diamonds, two of spades, and a joker. Jokers and twos were wild, giving him his third and fourth king. It was a great hand.
The other player still in the contest was Sean Calvin. He took a shot of rum and looked at his hand once more, rubbing his chin.
“I'll take two,” he said, tossing two cards into the slush pile.
McGee flicked two new cards across the table, and Calvin drew them in.
Next, McGee dealt himself two cards, but wasn't happy. He tossed his cards onto the table with an audible grunt of disgust.
“Don't blame us. You dealt them,” Calvin chided.
“So, who's doing what?” Patrick asked impatiently.
“It's your play,” Calvin responded.
Patrick grabbed a handful of coins and placed them in the pile.
“Then I'll raise. Three dollars,” he said cockily.
Calvin whistled. “Looks like someone must have a peach of a hand. What about you, O'Toole? You in or out?”
O'Toole looked at his cards again, his brow furrowed.
“Yeah, I'm in,” he finally said, placing his money into the pot.
“I'm in too,” Calvin added. “And I am gonna raise you gentlemen another three dollars.”
“I'll see your three and raise you another three,” Patrick said.
“That makes six to me,” O'Toole said. He thought about folding. The stakes were rising rapidly. His opponents both had to have good hands. But with his two wild cards he had four kings, one hell of a hand. Surely they couldn't beat him. O'Toole picked up the last of his money, placing it in the pot.
“I'm in. Let's see what you got.”
Patrick laid his cards down on the table for all to see. Two of diamonds, four of clubs, four of spades, eight of spades, and eight of clubs. The two was wild, so he played it as an eight and had a full house – eights full of fours.
“Very nice,” McGee said, slapping the young apprentice on the back, believing Patrick had won the hand.
“Not so fast,” Calvin said, eager to display h
is hand. He threw down three queens, and then slowly dropped a one-eyed-jack on top. “Four ladies.”
He laughed as he rushed to scoop up the money from the pot, believing O'Toole would just throw his cards down.
“Just a minute,” O'Toole said.
He laid down his five of diamonds, giving the men around the table a fraction of a second to imagine what four cards he had in his hand. Then he dropped down his two kings, the two, and finally the joker.
Four kings. The winning hand.
As O'Toole pulled the money towards him, Calvin slapped him playfully on the back.
“Nice hand. But you know I am winning that back,” he said with bravado.
“You can try,” O'Toole joked.
In the big scheme of things winning a poker hand was not particularly important. But to O'Toole, it signified his luck was changing, his life getting better. And for the first time since Merryn had died, he actually found himself smiling.
THIRTEEN
Mardan Hotel Construction Site, Ragalla, Sezanda, 27 February 1954...
The working week started like any other day in Ragalla. Before their shift, McGee's crew of workmen stood, with cups of steaming coffee in their hands, around a radio set listening to the morning news. The radio announcer stated the conflict with the Sez So rebels had escalated again, and outlined the incidents that had taken place over night.
“Did you hear that?” Patrick said, a wave of concern washing over his face. “The Sez Sos, they bombed a police station last night. A police station. Can you believe it?”
“Don't worry yourself, lad,” Calvin said casually. “They're cowards this Sez So lot. Notice they only strike at night. They skulk around in the shadows. That way, no one can catch them. You've got nothing to worry about.”
“But a police station,” Patrick repeated. “If the police can't stop them, then what about the regular people? What about us?”
“Don't let it worry you,” O'Toole interjected, seeing that the young man was working himself up into a panic. “The Sezandan rebels don't have a beef with us. We'll be right. Come on. Let's get to work.”
O'Toole finished his coffee and began to move off.
At that moment there was a loud explosion, stopping O'Toole in his tracks. The ground shook beneath his feet. It was as if an earthquake had hit. The team turned their heads as one, and watched as a plume of dirty black smoke drifted into the air in the distance. O'Toole guessed the explosion was approximately a mile away, and furthermore, to have felt the shock wave this far from the blast, then it must have been one hell of an explosion.
It was Donal McGee who broke the silence as the men stood staring into the sky.
“This is most probably nothing...” McGee started, trying to sound positive and in control.
“Nothing...” Calvin muttered, shaking his head.
“It was probably the police or army flushing out a band of rebels,” McGee continued. “But you are right to be worried. I'm worried. But I am here to build a hotel. And we are Americans. We have nothing to do with the internal politics of this country. If you want to go back to the apartment block, or even leave, that's up to you. But I selected you men because you weren't quitters. I am going to stay here, and do my job. Who is with me?”
O'Toole didn't have to think long. The hotel site had been exactly the type of environment he needed to get back on track. Sezanda was a rugged environment and no place for the weak – in mind or body. It hadn't been easy. In the early stages, he had gone through the horrors of alcohol detox as he readjusted to working life. But strangely, the challenge of working in Sezanda had returned him to the living. It had restored his faith in humanity – and his faith in himself.
“I'm staying,” O'Toole announced defiantly.
“Me too,” added O'Brien.
“And me,” said Calvin.
“Yep,” said Green.
Patrick was scared. O'Toole could see it in the young man's eyes. But slowly he nodded.
“I am staying,” he said.
“Good,” McGee said with relief. “Let's finish this hotel.”
FOURTEEN
O'Toole reversed the concrete mixer back, stopping the truck three feet from the blocked out section. Applying the handbrake, he stepped down from the cab and moved past the big rolling barrel of cement to the rear of the truck. Donal McGee had already extended the chute.
He called out to Green at the controls. “We're good to go.”
Green, using the hydraulic ram, slowly lifted the barrel. The wet concrete slewed down the chute over the metal reinforcement mesh. Other men with knee-high boots and shovels spread the concrete around, smoothing it out over the frame.
In the hot sun, O'Toole wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve and looked out over the building site. The first two stages of the hotel had been almost completed by previous work teams. It was the tricky third stage, with a circular multi-story tower block as a centerpiece, they were now constructing. However his attention was drawn to raised, distressed voices to his left.
He turned to see four workman running from the concrete shell of section two. They rushed out, yelling to their co-workers in their native tongue. O'Toole could not understand what they were saying, but the meaning became crystal clear when he heard the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons being fired.
Then there was the explosion.
The ground shook. Everybody stopped and turned. Concrete and metal ribbing erupted into the sky, followed by a dirty plume of black smoke, as section two of the hotel began to collapse.
“Take cover!” O'Toole yelled, as he knelt down beside the mixer.
Chunks of concrete and dust rained down from the sky. One of the Sezandan workmen cried out as he was struck by falling debris.
Another explosion rocked the other side of the building site. O'Toole turned his head and saw section one go up. The iron girders buckled from the intense heat, and slabs of concrete snapped as if they were made from cardboard. More debris rained down from the sky.
O'Toole could believe what he was seeing.
The smoke hadn't cleared when eight covered army trucks pulled up at the site, each carrying twenty armed Sez So rebels. O'Toole quickly looked around for Patrick. He wanted to make sure the young man was safe. He spied him standing in the open with his jaw agape.
“Patrick!” O'Toole yelled. “Over here.”
The young man didn't seem to hear. He stood glued to the spot.
The rebel soldiers alighted from the trucks with weapons drawn, firing shots into the air. O'Toole rushed over to Patrick's side as the rebels surrounded the workmen yelling a barrage of instructions, intermingled with abuse.
“Put your hands up,” O'Toole said. Patrick didn't move. “Hands up,” he repeated. “Show them you're not going to be a problem.”
Patrick slowly raised his hands. A rebel rushed across to them, his finger hovering over the trigger of his weapon. With the barrel of his rifle, he gestured they were to move towards the other Americans who were being gathered in a group. They complied.
Now assembled with the other Americans, O'Toole watched as several of the civilian Sezandan workers on the hotel site tried to make a break for it. When they did, they were immediately gunned down in a blaze of machine gun fire.
During the war, in Italy, O'Toole had seen his share of carnage and killing. He had seen death up close. So, as he watched, he felt strangely immune to the sickening display.
Patrick, however, was not battle hardened.
“You can't do this,” he yelled, rushing forward. “They’re just innocent workers.”
A rebel soldier intercepted Patrick, thrusting the butt of his rifle into the young American’s stomach. He collapsed to the ground in pain, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Be quiet. You only speak when spoken to. You are all prisoners now. You do what we say, or there will be trouble,” the rebel yelled.
He wasn't just speaking to Patrick. He was speaking to everyone.
&nbs
p; McGee stepped forward with his hands raised. As the site manager, McGee believed it was his duty to negotiate their freedom.
“There must be some kind of mistake. We are Americans,” he said calmly.
“You do not talk. Do as you are told. You understand?”
McGee did not understand until a rifle was raised and aimed at his face. Then he understood. He nodded, moving slowly back to stand with the other Americans.
All the workers at the site were rounded up and the rebels began loading them into the back of four large military trucks. The Americans were kept together, which O'Toole found reassuring. It meant the soldiers knew who they were, or at least what country they came from.
The fact none of them had been killed was also a good sign. It implied the soldiers had orders not to harm them, which further implied somebody wanted them alive. For what purpose, O'Toole had no idea.
FIFTEEN
At gunpoint, the Americans were herded into the back of the last truck. As O'Toole climbed up over the tailgate, he saw fourteen British soldiers manacled to support bars near the cab. By the bruising on their faces, they had been worked over.
A rebel manhandled O'Toole into position and clapped a manacle around his wrist, before moving onto Patrick, then the others. Once all the Americans were locked in, the rebel stepped down. Moments later, the engine kicked over and the truck moved off, traveling in convoy with three other vehicles.
O'Toole was chained next to one of the British soldiers. The soldier was possibly sixty years old, with snowy white hair and a face like a bulldog. The left side of his face was bruised, and he had a deep cut over his left eye. From the insignia on his bloodied uniform, O'Toole pegged him as a Staff Sergeant.
O'Toole was aware that before he arrived in Sezanda, the government had requested a British peacekeeping force when hostilities had initially broke out with the Sez So rebels. One thousand British troops had been dispatched to assist in the conflict. They were a token gesture at best, spread across the country in small numbers.
