Road of Bones

by James R Benn

  “They’re not going to leave their drugs and gold,” I said. “It’s all they have.”

  “Then we shall take it from them,” Kaz said, taking a plum from the bowl and cutting it, twisting the flesh until it came apart in his hands, juice running between his fingers like blood.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  As we descended at Camp Gifford, I could feel the C-47 begin to heat up. We landed on the dirt runway, the props blowing up a tornado of dust as the pilot taxied to a halt. No hangars, no tower, just a barren stretch of brown with a few jeeps waiting for us.

  The rear door opened, and it felt like stepping into a furnace. We were all in shirtsleeves, and I was soaked by the time I’d taken ten steps.

  “Welcome to tropical Iran,” Ghazi said as he hoisted the tommy gun over his shoulder. “It is not an agreeable climate, sorry to say.”

  “At least the bugs like it,” I said, slapping my neck. In the distance, I could see rows of tents baking under the sun. Low buildings made of mud bricks sat in a neat orderly row, their metal roofs shimmering with heat.

  We had four jeeps, each with an armed driver. We helped Big Mike into one and then split up, Gideon with me and Kaz with Ghazi. We had three handheld walkie-talkies, canteens of water, and sort of a plan. Don’t let them get on a boat, then don’t let them get away.

  “We just got word that the train is due in one hour, sir,” our driver said to Gideon. He was a sergeant named Fenwick, and he told us he’d volunteered for this shindig out of boredom and a desire to see some of the shooting war before it was all over. I was about to tell him it wasn’t fun and games but held back. No need to crack wise with a guy I might need for backup.

  Fenwick said we had about a half-hour’s drive, and Gideon told him to step on it. Our little convoy took off, raising dust as we headed for the wharves.

  “How many freight cars in these trains?” I asked Fenwick, leaning forward from the rear seat.

  “A hundred or more,” he said. “They run these big trains double-headed so’s they can pull a big load.”

  “Double-headed?” I asked.

  “Two locomotives,” he said.

  “What about cargo,” Gideon said. “Do these boxcars carry freight down here?”

  “Oh sure,” Fenwick said. “Nothing like what they haul back, but there’s always some agricultural products. A load of carpets now and then. Every train brings something, since those ships don’t like goin’ back empty.”

  “They unload first, I guess,” I said. “Then they take on cargo from the ships?”

  “Right. They offload near the wharf. Usually the boxcars up front are the ones carrying a load. Makes it easier that way,” Fenwick said.

  “That’s what we want to watch,” Gideon said.

  “From a nice shady spot, I hope.”

  “Not much shade on the wharves,” Fenwick said. “Not much shade anywhere. Lookit, not a damn tree in sight. There’s a reason no one lives around here.”

  Even the breeze from driving felt like being whacked with a hot blanket. I didn’t know how this whole thing was going to work out, but I wanted it to be quick.

  The terrain was flat, broken only by the occasional dry gulch or jumble of rocks. The road was straight, and the effect was mesmerizing as mirages danced on the horizon. As we drove on, I saw what looked like a wall dead ahead.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked.

  “It’s an earthen berm,” Fenwick said. “The port is just below sea level, so at high tide it can flood. Engineers built a five-foot berm around the whole area to keep the tidal waters out.”

  “It’s amazing anyone can work in this heat,” Gideon said.

  “It ain’t hard, Colonel,” Fenwick said. “Long as you don’t mind heat stroke. Drink your water.”

  We did. Fenwick slowed as we crested the incline built over the wall. I caught a quick glimpse of Bandar Shapur from what was the highest point around. It was massive—a huge, depressed, flat surface covered in supply dumps, hardpack roadways, and train tracks. Flat-roofed buildings ran along the main road, trucks parked everywhere. Cranes stood tall at the water’s edge, where I could see four ships docked at the two wharves. Beyond them, on the far side of the curving shore, was a single pier with two small vessels moored up. Lighters, I guess. From there, a long stretch of flatland ran up to the berm, probably two miles from here.

  In the distance I spotted a faint plume of smoke and heard the whistle from a locomotive.

  “That’s our train,” Fenwick said, gunning the jeep once we’d gone down the other side.

  “No checkpoints or sentries around the perimeter?” Gideon asked, craning his neck to track the smoke from the locomotive.

  “Who the hell would want to get in here? Sir.” Fenwick said. “The supply dumps are guarded, especially those that got food. But this perimeter? Ain’t got enough guys to patrol it.”

  This place made a sieve look like a Diebold safe.

  If it was possible, it was even hotter and more humid within the confines of Bandar Shapur. Acres of steel and iron held the heat in, and the waters from the gulf added their moisture to form a thick, sticky mass of air that hung heavily over us.

  I drank more water.

  We pulled up at the wharf, filled with sailors from the Liberty ships and GIs working the winches and unloading supplies from the ships’ holds. Large crates stood along the wharf, right next to the tracks that were laid along it. Narrow-gauge stuff, which meant for smaller boxcars. No wonder they needed so many. There was a mountain of goods ready to go, and a half dozen other vessels were moored offshore, waiting their turn.

  Gathering around Big Mike’s jeep, Gideon began to give orders.

  “Big Mike, you and your driver stand guard by the lighters. Take one of the other drivers and check them out. Call on the walkie-talkie if you spot anything. And keep your eyes peeled in our direction. They may get right off once their boxcar is close enough.”

  “Got it,” Big Mike said, as Kaz’s driver joined them. “I’ll call in once we talk to the lighter crew.” The three of them took off, and Gideon studied the cargo ships in front of us.

  “These ships have 20mm gun mounts above the bridge,” Gideon said. “A good observation point, and we can keep hidden.”

  “Farther for us to come down once we spot them, Colonel,” I said. “Although it is the best vantage point.” I’d found the best way to disagree with a senior officer was to agree with him, right after you explained why he’d been wrong.

  “Colonel, allow me to suggest this,” Ghazi said, with a quick glance in my direction. “If you and Lieutenant Kazimierz position yourselves in the 20mm mounts, one on each ship, you will have the observation you need. Meanwhile, Captain Boyle and I will patrol the wharf, staying out of sight. I can also speak with some of the workers, to learn if they have seen anything. In this way, we can take them as soon as they appear.”

  “We don’t have enough walkie-talkies,” Gideon said, but I could see he knew it was the better approach.

  “You take one, sir, and make regular visual contact with Kaz. He can signal if he sees anything,” I said. “You then radio us.”

  “It is a good plan, Colonel,” Kaz said. “It takes advantage of Inspector Ghazi’s local knowledge, and the fact that none of our quarry have ever seen him.”

  “You’re right,” Gideon said, as the sound of the train whistle drew closer. “Get into position. I’ll speak with the harbormaster and then get up into this mount.” The colonel ordered Fenwick and the fourth driver to remain in a jeep at the entrance to the wharf in case he needed them.

  “Billy,” Kaz said, pulling me aside as Gideon left. “If you encounter Sidorov, remember he is a murderer, on the large scale and small. If you stand in the way of his freedom, he will kill you. He is a charming fellow, for a Russian, but do not give him a chance. I know you, and you
possess a strong streak of American sentimentality. It can be endearing, but for now, cast it out. Kill Sidorov. It will be the best thing you can do for him, believe me.”

  Kaz hustled up the gangway to his post, and Ghazi and I walked off the wharf and followed the train tracks.

  “I could not help but overhear. Captain Sidorov, he was a friend?”

  “I can’t say that. He is a killer, and he betrayed me. But he’s one of those people you wish could be a better person, know what I mean?”

  “I do. And I understand why your friend is concerned. A moment’s hesitation, and you are lost to him. Think of his loss, Captain Boyle,” Ghazi said.

  “Call me Billy. Everyone does.”

  “Very well, Billy. I am Javid. And I do not know this Sidorov fellow other than as a villain. I will kill him for you. And for Lieutenant Kazimierz. There, now we are friends.”

  My new friend stopped to talk with a couple of laborers who were carrying heavy burlap sacks of green beans to a platform next to the tracks. I walked on, staring down the tracks. Smoke from the engine spouted, not that far away, and as the train rounded a bend, I could see the light on the front of the locomotive.

  “Learn anything?” I asked Javid as he caught up with me.

  “No. They are too afraid. There has been a crackdown on petty pilferage, and they don’t want trouble,” he said. “But they did say the Americans take the most.”

  “Everybody takes a cut when it comes to the supply line,” I said. “It’s a matter of degree.”

  “Yes. Minor losses help keep everyone happy. Major losses make everyone look bad. The same the world over, eh?”

  We came to another pile of heavy crates, rows of them, stacked three high, with enough space for a person to squeeze between. There was no shortage of hiding places here. How long someone could last out in this heat was another story.

  I squinted my eyes, trying to keep the sweat from clouding my vision. The train didn’t seem to be moving. It was coming straight at us, so maybe it had simply slowed. An optical illusion.

  We circled the crates and doubled back toward the ships.

  The walkie-talkie crackled. It was Big Mike. Nothing unusual at the lighters.

  “Who mans them? Over,” I said to Big Mike. Americans, he said. Part of the port battalion crew.

  We walked parallel to the wharf, listening to the train and watching the work of the GI longshoremen. Winches hauled supplies out of the holds and lowered them to the wharf. Men swarmed over them, organizing materials for quick loading. Brutal work.

  Javid came back from another chat with Iranian laborers.

  “A rumor was whispered to me,” he said. “Today is a good day for a blind man.”

  “A day not to see things,” I said.

  “Which tells me someone here has knowledge of the Khazar involvement, at least,” Javid said as the sweat trickled down his temples. “Otherwise there would be no rumor.”

  “Are there any Iranian vessels in the harbor?” I asked.

  “We should find out,” Javid said, and I got on the walkie-talkie. Gideon said he’d check with the harbormaster.

  “Where is the train?” Javid said, climbing up a pile of crates as the workers stacking them stood aside. He shielded his eyes and leaned forward. “It has stopped.”

  “How far?”

  “A quarter mile, perhaps.”

  The walkie-talkie sounded. Gideon reported that there were no Iranian-flagged ships in the harbor. Mostly US Merchant Marine, with neutral ships from Portugal and Turkey. Two British vessels registered out of India, and a French ship.

  “Colonel, the train seems to have stopped. Can you see anything? Over.”

  “Negative. Over.”

  “French?” Big Mike said, breaking in and forgetting to say over.

  “Damn,” Gideon said. “The Africaine, registered out of Madagascar.”

  He forgot to say over as well.

  The train whistle blew, one long blast followed by two short toots.

  “A signal,” Javid said, climbing down from the stacked crates.

  “Colonel, can you spot the French freighter? Over.”

  “Yes, still at anchor. Over.”

  The crack of a small explosion sounded from the other side of the wooden crates. Flame shot up into the air and black smoke swirled around the containers as workers and GIs shouted and generally ran around in frantic circles.

  “Now a distraction,” Javid said, moving away from the conflagration. We stepped out into the open and onto a raised platform marked for outbound goods, products the train was delivering for export.

  The train whistle blew again. Workers were lowering buckets into the water and hauling them up to douse the fire. They got a decent bucket brigade working and, of course, all eyes were on them and the fire.

  Which was the idea.

  “Anything?” I said into the walkie-talkie. “We have a suspicious fire here. Over.”

  “Nothing, over,” Gideon said, followed by the same from Big Mike.

  I rubbed the sweat away from my eyes again and scanned the train and the open ground around it. A siren wailed, heralding the arrival of a fire engine in olive drab, an ancient hand-pump vehicle that had seen better days. GIs drove it onto the wharf and began dousing the burning crates with a steady stream of water. Two ambulances arrived and soon the whole area was jammed with soldiers, sailors, and workers, all gathered around the vehicles.

  More smoke billowed out from the fire, a thick cloud of white.

  “Smoke grenade,” I said, as a man screamed. A worker came out of the smoke, his ragged clothes singed and blackened. He fell on the ground, choking, as the medics rushed to his side. At the same time, the locomotive chugged on, releasing a cloud of steam as it advanced even closer. Its next whistle meant business, not a signal. Too many people were crowded on the wharf, blocking its way on the narrow tracks, and the engineer gave out a warning blast. People scattered in every direction.

  “We are losing control of the situation,” Javid said. “If we ever had it.”

  “They have to be close by,” I said. Or maybe not. This could all be misdirection, getting us to focus on the train and the fire while Maiya pulled a fast one somewhere else.

  “Listen,” Javid said, cupping a hand around his ear. “Aircraft approaching. There!” He pointed north and I spotted it. A twin-engine plane, coming in low with wheels lowered, heading for the flat strip of land between the berm and the tracks, heading right for the pier.

  Heading right for Big Mike.

  I couldn’t believe it. A gutsy move, but what was she thinking?

  The Yak-6M put its flaps down and managed a ragged landing, sending up a plume of dust before coming to a wobbly halt about fifty yards from the pier. Big Mike’s jeep raced out to the aircraft as soon as its engines cut. Three figures bolted from the rear exit, running for the train. In the shimmering heat, it was impossible to pick out faces.

  “Are those Russians?” Javid asked as we moved along the side of the train, which had finally come to a halt. “I could not tell from the uniform.”

  “Dusty brown, about the same as everybody around here,” I said. “I can’t even tell if one’s a woman.”

  My walkie-talkie squawked at me, but I ignored it, pointing my Thompson in the air. It was time for a warning shot.

  I didn’t have a chance to fire.

  The airplane exploded, a crack-boom that tore the fuselage apart and sent a shockwave of heated air that almost knocked me over. Burning pieces of metal fluttered to the ground as tires burned and issued black, acrid smoke.

  “Big Mike!” I yelled, my ears still ringing. I keyed the walkie-talkie, trying to clear my head and make sense of what was happening. No answer from Big Mike, but I could hear Gideon calling.

  I tore my eyes away from the wreckage and g
lanced up the length of the train. They were gone. I looked back to where Big Mike had been and saw the jeep heading for us, one man slumped in the front.

  Kaz was running toward us, his uniform soaked in sweat, hands gripping his Thompson.

  “Twelve cars up,” he gasped, taking in deep breaths as he watched Big Mike. “I saw them go in a boxcar.”

  The jeep swerved and braked close to us.

  “I’ve got two injured,” Big Mike said from the driver’s seat, grimacing as he shifted gears. “Debris hit these two hard. I was in the back seat and ducked just in time. Did they get away?”

  “Yeah,” I said, checking the men. One was unconscious, blood seeping from his hairline. The other’s face was peppered with cuts and one eye was swollen shut. “There’s a couple of ambulances over by where that fire was. Go. We’ll search for the Russians.”

  “Be careful,” Big Mike said. “Tricky bastards.”

  As soon as Big Mike took off, Gideon pulled up with Fenwick and another GI.

  “We lost them?” Gideon said.

  “For the moment,” Kaz said. “We shall find them.”

  “We need to search the train for the drugs,” I said. “Find the drugs and we find them.”

  “That stunt with the aircraft,” Javid said. “It seemed rather heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

  “It worked,” Gideon said. “Drew our attention.”

  “Yes, but from what?” Kaz said. “They could have come in on the train. Why go through that entrance and explosion, only to run for the train, where they could have been all along?”

  “Listen, we don’t have a lot of time,” I said. “Sergeant Fenwick, you patrol to the end of the train and see if you spot anyone suspicious. Then work your way back, checking each car.”

  We’ll start at this end. No telling where they could be by now.”

  “Colonel, do we know when the French ship is scheduled to unload their cargo?” Javid asked.

  “She’s next up. They’ve almost finished unloading one of the Liberty ships, and as soon as the wharf is cleared, the Africaine will dock.”