Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Sir,” Garth said.

  “Sir,” Art added.

  “Good. Good. The first few days will be for processing and orientation. Once that is completed, you will have all the privileges. . . such as they are . . . of any of the other prisoners.”

  “Thank you,” Art said.

  “You are dismissed.”

  Art came to attention, and resisted the urge to salute.

  Art was in processing and orientation for three days before he was allowed to go out into the exercise yard. He was somewhat of a celebrity when he arrived, not only because he had been a colonel, which was a very high rank among the prison population, but also because many had been able to follow his trial.

  The reactions to his arrival were as varied as the prison itself. Some ignored him, some were awed by him, and some resented him. Not long after he showed up in the prison yard, a very large black man confronted him.

  “They tell me you was a colonel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let me tell you somethin’. You ain’t no colonel in here. In here, you ain’t nothin’ but a prisoner, same as the rest of us.”

  “Yes, I was told that in orientation,” Art said.

  “So, don’t be tryin’ to pull no rank on nobody.”

  “That wouldn’t be possible,” Art said. “I don’t have any rank to pull.”

  The big black stood about six feet four inches tall and had a body that rippled with muscles from daily workouts. He pointed to himself with his thumb. “My name is Troy, and I’m the colonel in here,” he said.

  “Really? And here I thought you just said there was no rank in here.”

  Troy grinned. “Ain’t no rank except for my rank,” he said. “And I can back my rank up with this.” He bent his arm, flexing his muscle.

  “Very impressive,” Art said calmly.

  “So, ex-Colonel, when I say shit, you squat and ask how much.”

  “I don’t think so,” Art replied.

  “Say what? What you say to me, boy?”

  “Well, we have already established that there is no rank in here, haven’t we? So I don’t intend to recognize any rank you say you have. Go play your games with someone else.”

  By now several of the nearby prisoners had overheard the confrontation, and they began drifting over to see what was going to happen.

  “Boy, you don’t know who you’re messin’ with,” Troy said.

  “I’m not messing with anyone,” Art said. “That’s the whole point. You go your way and I’ll go mine.”

  Troy opened one big palm, and began rubbing his fist.

  “Maybe I better just show you who’s in charge round here,” he said.

  “Leave him alone, Troy. He’s new here. He doesn’t know the ropes yet,” Art heard someone say.

  “Then it’s up to me to teach him the ropes, ain’t it?”

  “Kick his ass, Troy,” someone else said. He giggled. “I’ve always wanted to see a colonel get his ass kicked.”

  “Troy, looks like you and I got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over and be friends?” Art stuck out his hand in the offer of a handshake.

  “Nah,” Troy said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I want to kick your ass.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want you to do that,” Art said. Again, his comments were cool and quiet, not at all the reaction of someone who was intimidated by Troy’s obvious strength and size.

  Troy chuckled. “No, I don’t ’spect you would,” he said.

  Art sighed. “Here’s the thing, Troy. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The expression on Troy’s face turned from one of almost eager anticipation to surprise. Then he laughed.

  “What you say, boy? You don’t want to hurt me?” Troy looked around at the other prisoners, in order for them to share his appreciation of the humor of Art’s comment. “He don’ want to hurt me,” Troy said.

  “That’s what I said,” Art replied. “It’s not too late, you know. If you call this off now, you won’t get hurt.”

  Several of the other prisoners laughed as well, and the confrontation was beginning to draw several more to the scene.

  “Colonel, have you taken a good look at Troy? How are you going to hurt him?” one of the prisoners said.

  “Guys, I’m not so sure,” another prisoner said. This was the same prisoner who had asked Troy to leave Art alone. “Maybe you all didn’t read how he handled those three terrorists who kidnapped him. He ripped the jugular and windpipe out of one of them, using nothing but his teeth.”

  “Is that right, Colonel? Is that what you done?” Troy asked.

  “Yes,” Art said. “Then I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Art made a smacking sound with his lips.

  “Say what?” Troy asked, obviously confused by Art’s remark.

  One of the other prisoners laughed. “Troy, you mean you didn’t see Silence of the Lambs?”

  “I don’ know what you talkin’ about,” Troy said. “But I’m tired of talkin’. I think it’s about time I did me some ass kickin’.”

  Troy lunged toward Art, but Art stepped adroitly to one side, kicking his foot out as he did so. His heel caught Troy’s knee in the side, smashing the kneecap to pulp.

  Troy let out a yell of pain and anger, then turned toward Art, but his knee didn’t let him react quickly enough. Again, Art stepped easily out of his way, this time smashing Troy’s other knee.

  Troy went down, and Art went down with him, putting his knee on Troy’s throat.

  “Holy shit!” one of the other prisoners said, almost reverently. “Did you see that?” Everyone grew quiet.

  “Troy,” Art said. His voice was still calm and conversational. “You are about one-sixteenth of an inch from dying. I can crush your larynx quite easily, and if I do, you will die, very painfully, gasping for breath. Shall we continue this?”

  “No, no,” Troy said. “I’ve had enough. I need a doctor, man. My knees is both gone. You crippled me, man!”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Art said. He stood up then, taking the pressure off Troy’s throat. “But you have to admit that it is better to walk with a limp for the rest of your life than it would be to die, don’t you agree?”

  Troy didn’t say anything.

  “Troy, I asked if you agree with me,” Art said. Not once, during the entire confrontation, had Art raised his voice. Now the cold, calm, emotionless delivery had a chilling effect that reached everyone present.

  “Yes, sir, I agree, I agree,” Troy said, his voice tinged with pain and fear.

  “Oh, you don’t have to say sir to me,” Art said. “As you pointed out, I’m not a colonel anymore.”

  “Oh, please, let me up. Don’t kill me. Dear God, don’t kill me.”

  Art reached his hand toward Troy. “So, what do you say, Troy? Are you and I going to put this behind us and be friends?”

  “We be friends, we be friends,” Troy said eagerly.

  “I thought you might see things my way,” Art said. He looked into the shocked faces of all who were gathered around him. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

  For the rest of the day, wherever Art walked, prisoners parted for him like the Red Sea parting for Moses.

  That night, while in his cell, Art was able to read the journal that had just been returned to him that day at the conclusion of his in-processing. It had been his first opportunity to read it since the part where Smoke had been sentenced to hang. Now Smoke was in jail, and again, Art found the coincidence striking, almost as if Smoke had anticipated Art’s difficulty and was sharing his own experiences with him to make the ordeal easier to bear.

  From the journal of Smoke Jensen

  For three days, I lay on the bunk in that small, hot, and airless cell, listening to the sound of carpenters constructing a gallows. The window to my cell was so high that, in order to look through it, I had to stand on my bunk, and even then I couldn’t actually see the gallows . . . though, in the late after
noon, I could see its shadow against the side wall of the apothecary.

  By that way I could measure the progress each afternoon. The first day there was just the base. The second day I could see the base and the steps, and the beginning of the gibbet. Sometime in the afternoon of the third day, the hammering and sawing stopped, and when I looked at the shadow that evening I could see the entire gallows, complete with gibbet and dangling rope, the hangman’s noose already tied.

  Having faced death many times before, I was convinced that I had come to an accommodation with it. But I was about to be hanged for something I did not do, and there was something about that prospect that bothered me even more than the actual dying. It wasn’t just that I was going to be executed, though that was bad enough, it was that those who actually were guilty were getting away with it.

  Marshal Turnball had a deputy by the name of Pike, an evil-minded person who took a great deal of delight in standing just outside my cell and telling me how much he was going to enjoy watching me swing. During the night before I was due to hang, Pike was the deputy on duty. Just as the clock struck ten, he came over to the cell to tell me that I had only eight hours to live. He came back at eleven, at midnight, and again at one. Each time he counted down the hours with particular glee.

  As it so happened, I had a good view of the clock from my cell, so, just before two, I climbed up to the very top of the cell, and hung on with feet and hands. As I expected, Deputy Pike came to the cell as the clock was striking two in order to give me the latest countdown. But, because I was in the shadows at the top of the cell, he didn’t see me.

  “Jensen?” he called. “Jensen, where are you?”

  I was in an awkward and uncomfortable position and didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. I watched Pike’s face as he studied the inside of the cell, and I could tell that he was both worried and confused.

  Pike walked back to get the key, then returned and opened the door to step inside. I’m not sure I could have held on for another moment, but I managed to hold on until he was well inside, clear of the door. Then I dropped down behind him.

  “What the hell?” he shouted, turning around to face me. That was as far as he got, before I took him down with a hard blow to the chin.

  Working quickly, I dragged him over to the bunk, then I pulled off his socks and stuffed them in his mouth. That was to keep him from shouting the alarm after I left. I handcuffed him to the bunk so he couldn’t get rid of the socks, then I closed and locked the door.

  By then, Pike was conscious, and he glared at me with hate-filled eyes. He tried to talk, but could barely manage a squeak.

  “Deputy Pike, it has been fun,” I said. “We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

  No more than ten minutes later I was riding out of town, on my own horse, having found him in the stable. I have no doubt but that the marshal intended to auction Stormy off after my hanging. I also had my own pistol back, retrieving it from the bottom drawer of Marshal Turnball’s desk.

  I could have just kept on riding until I was well clear of the county, but I knew if I did I would have dodgers following me for the rest of my life. In order to clear myself, I would need to find the sons of bitches who set me up. (Excuse me for swearing, Art, I’m not sure if son of a bitch is a phrase you will recognize. It’s a rather foul one, and I don’t know if folks will still be using it in your day. But it was a very useful phrase in my time.)

  Actually, I not only needed to find them, I wanted to find them. I had more than just a little score to settle with them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Memphis, Tennessee

  Abdul Shareef and Mohammed Hussein were having breakfast together at the Delta Night Motel. The two men had stayed in the motel the night before, parking their rental trucks at the back of the parking lot.

  They went through the breakfast buffet, then sat down at a window table that afforded them a view of the Mississippi River, and both Memphis bridges across the river.

  “You have taken bacon, Abdul?” Mohammed asked, surprised to see it on Abdul’s plate.

  “Yes.”

  “But you know pork is forbidden.”

  Abdul smiled. “We are angels of the Prophet now,” he said. “Nothing is forbidden.”

  “That is true, isn’t it?” Mohammed said.

  Abdul picked up a piece of bacon and tasted it. “Uhmm,” he said. “This is very good.”

  Mohammed reached across to take a piece of bacon from Adbul’s plate. He took a bite, smacked his lips, then smiled broadly.

  “It is good,” he said. “All this time, we have not eaten pork. Why did someone not tell us it was good?”

  “Because it is forbidden unless you are someone like us. Angels of the Prophet.”

  Mohammed returned to the buffet and filled another plate with nothing but bacon and sausage. He brought it back to the table and the two men ate all of it.

  “When I get to paradise, I will have virgins feed me bacon,” Mohammed said.

  “And give me wine,” Abdul answered.

  After a few minutes, Mohammed groaned.

  “What is it?” Abdul asked.

  “I have a stomachache,” Mohammed said.

  Abdul laughed.

  “What is so funny?”

  “In less than one hour you will be in paradise,” he said. “Why worry about a stomachache now?”

  Mohammed laughed with him.

  The two men paid their bill, then walked out to the back of the parking lot where the two trucks were parked, back to back, to prevent anyone from opening the doors. They put their hands on each other’s shoulders.

  “Allah Akbar,” Mohammed said.

  “Allah Akbar,” Abdul replied.

  Royal quarters at the Qambari Arabia consulate,

  New York City

  Prince Azeer checked his watch and, as he saw the appointed hour draw near, he felt a rush of adrenaline. Picking up the remote, he turned on the news.

  “. . . it is almost as if the stock market was bound by impassable parameters,” a financial wizard was saying. “It is prevented from going too high by a volatile oil market, and from going too low by what is, in all other cases, a very robust economy. One can hardly decide what—”

  The interview was suddenly interrupted by a riff of attention-getting music. The screen went blue for a moment, then was filled with the words, WORLD CABLE NEWS ALERT.

  There was a voice-over.

  “We interrupt this program to bring you a World Cable News alert. We take you now to Memphis, Tennessee, where there has been a very large explosion of unknown origin. Here now, our WCN field reporter, Dave Gregory. Dave, what can you tell us?”

  “George, at exactly eight o’clock, local time, there was a huge explosion in the middle of the Hernando DeSoto Bridge, dropping the entire structure into the Mississippi River.”

  As Dave was giving his report, there was a low, booming sound and, in the middle of his report, Dave suddenly looked to his right.

  “Oh my God! There has been another explosion!” Dave said. “From here I can see that it is the other bridge, the Frisco Bridge.

  The camera turned toward the Frisco Bridge and recorded it, as the entire span fell into the water, dropping cars and trucks into the river as it fell.

  As the scene played out on the TV screen, George, the anchor back in the Atlanta studio, began talking. “What a terrible déjà vu,” he said. “Our viewers might recognize this as tragically reminiscent of that scene on nine-eleven when, even as we were watching one of the World Trade Center Towers burning, an airplane crashed into the second tower.”

  “Yes, George,” Dave said from Memphis. “This means that both bridges across the Mississippi River have been destroyed . . . and now it is almost certain that this isn’t an accident.”

  “Any report on casualties yet?”

  “Not yet, though as it is the morning rush hour here, there are estimates that as many as one hundred cars may have been on the bridge. An
d of course, you can just about double that number now, with the Frisco Bridge.”

  “Thank you, Dave,” George said. The scene returned to the studio with the anchor staring at the camera. “Here, now, with an analysis of what this might mean, is—” George started to say, but he interrupted his comment in midsentence and held his finger to his earpiece as something new was coming in.

  “Wait, this just in, we have just learned that there has also been an explosion on the I-70 bridge across the Mississippi River in St. Louis.”

  The scene on the TV screen switched to St. Louis where a cloud of black smoke could be seen rising into the blue sky against the backdrop of the Gateway Arch. A newsman on the scene gave a breathless report, stating how a large eighteen-wheeler stopped right in the middle of the bridge, then exploded, bringing the entire bridge down.

  After a few more eyewitness accounts, and some pictures of firemen and policemen rushing to the site, the scene returned to the studio.

  “And now, here, with an analysis of what this might mean is WCN contributor Jason Gurney.”

  “George, although the loss of life from these attacks may not be as high as what we suffered on nine-eleven, the economic impact might be just as severe. What viewers may not understand is that, nearly sixty percent of all east-west traffic in the United States uses the I-70 and I-40 corridors. That means it is going to be much more difficult, and you can make that expensive, to ship freight from coast to coast. Whoever planned this attack is a genius.”

  “Ha!” Azeer said, laughing out loud and slapping himself on the knee. “Did you hear that, Hamdi? I am a genius!”

  “A genius, blessed by Allah,” Hamdi replied.

  “Yes,” Azeer said as he drank his bourbon and water. “Touched by Allah.”

  Washington, D.C., the Pentagon,

  office of the secretary of the army

  “Colonel Nighthorse, the secretary will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” Nighthorse said, getting up and walking into the secretary’s office. Giles met him just inside the door and escorted him over to the seating area.