One Helluva Bad Time- The Complete Bad Times Series

by Chuck Dixon

  “Oo this then ye bring me, corp’ral?” the larger man said, tipping back his helmet with a thumb revealing sky blue eyes in a brick-red face.

  “They cannot say, sergeant! The Pasha orders all foreigners to be questioned. These kano have no answers,” the Filipino corporal said, head bobbing.

  “I see. I see. Bring the lot of them along sharp then,” the large man said, waving the entourage on with one hand as he lifted the steaming brew to his lips with dainty precision.

  At bayonet point, they were forced into a trot under the bridge gate, through a gap in a curtain wall and under the arched opening of the fortified gateway into the main fort. Open ports in the face of the gate bristled with the mouths of cannon. Inside the encircling walls was a wide-open courtyard lined along the edges with stables, tents, barracks, farrier sheds, and gun ramps.

  In the center of the square was a wooden gallows that showed signs of recent construction. Eight forms, bound at the wrists and ankles, hung unmoving from the long top board. As the team was escorted by the feet of the hanged men, Jimbo glanced upward at them.

  About the waist of each was cinched a sash of black cloth. And at the end of the row, a swollen tongue pressing against his teeth was a familiar face.

  Yahoo.

  20

  Standing at the Drum

  The team stood in the scalding afternoon sun at attention before a grand tent the size of a house. It was constructed of red silk hemmed with tassels of gold. Their weapons and crates of ammo and goods were stacked at the opening of the tent. The little corporal had disappeared inside the tent and emerged moments after a muted conversation with someone within. He yipped an order and marched his little troop of sentries away, leaving the team under the watchful gaze of other soldiers dressed in blue uniforms also trimmed in red cuffs and collars. These were westerners in kepis and neck scarves. They stood at ease, rifles cradled as they eyed the rank of prisoners warily. More troops watched from the ramparts, a bit of diversion from their usual afternoon posting.

  “Who’re we waiting for?” Boats said from the corner of his mouth.

  Jimbo started to answer but was interrupted by a roaring voice. “Quiet in the ranks, youse!” bawled a squat man with three chevrons on his forearm. A distinctly American voice even though separated from the prisoners by a century. The man arched an eyebrow and spat a stream of tobacco in their direction.

  They stood silent, sweat beading and skin burning while biting flies found every inch of exposed flesh. The soldiers guarding them kept to the shade of the tent’s broad canopy and drank dippers filled with water from a bucket set there for them by a coolie.

  After an age, a prim-looking officer in a black brocaded tunic and peaked cap emerged from the tent. The soldiers straightened and brought their rifles to port. He pursed his lips a moment at the sweating row of strangers before stepping up to Lee Hammond.

  “You are the officer in command of these men?” the officer said in a clipped accent meant to be English but concealing a bit of a brogue.

  “I am,” Lee answered.

  “General Gordon will see you now.” The officer turned on a heel to lead Lee into the tent.

  “Not until my men are allowed to get out of the sun and drink some water,” Lee said, remaining at attention.

  “The devil—?” the officer said, turning back to raise an eyebrow. “My men and I haven’t broken any laws. We don’t deserve this punishment. Innocent until proven guilty, right?” Lee said, eyes leveled on the other man’s shocked expression.

  “You’re mad, you are,” the officer said, outraged, the Belfast creeping into his tone.

  “Our operation is being interfered with, and we’re being held prisoner with no charges brought against us. You’ll treat my unit with more respect, or your precious general can go to hell,” Lee said, eyes fixed over the officer’s head.

  The officer’s face turned red with rage. The soldiers in the shade of the tent fly looked at one another from the corner of their eyes. “And I’ll be bringing my sergeant with me,” Lee added and glanced at Jimmy Smalls standing rigid beside him.

  The officer made a few noises from between pressed lips but waved them forward. Lee stepped to the tent with Jimbo on his heels.

  “Give them water,” the officer hissed as he strode after the pair of prisoners followed by four soldiers holding rifles ready.

  A soldier came forward with a dripping ladle, holding it out to Boats, who curled a lip at it.

  “No thanks, bro. I’d rather have my own water, okay?” the SEAL said, nodding toward the pile of canteens in the dirt by the crates.

  The air was musty but cooler within the tent. It had a high ceiling and was vented at the peak to provide a draught. Mirrors were cleverly arranged to reflect sunlight into the interior, giving the area at the center of the tent the effect of being a theater stage revealing two figures, one standing and one seated.

  A tall man stood by a campaign desk in a jacket of yellow silk girdled with an indigo sash under a belt of polished black leather from which hung a curved dagger and a revolver in a flapped holster. The man was bareheaded, with chestnut hair brushed back to a shine. A trimmed mustache on his upper lip emphasized the youth of the man. He gave the appearance of a college student dressed for a school play. Only his eyes betrayed the man within; a seasoned warrior who’d seen his share of horrors. He held a thin volume of prayers bound in limp leather in one hand.

  The second man was a Chinese of indeterminate age. He was dressed in layers of painted and embroidered silk robes that covered him from neck to ankles. His head was shaved, but his eyebrows were thick and pronounced. Long mustaches drooped from the corners of his lips. On two fingers, he wore long nail covers of silver that ended in cruel-looking points. He had a book open on his knees and seemed more interested in the words on its pages than in the strangers being ushered in at rifle point. Though upside down from his perspective, Jimbo could see the words of the book were in English.

  “The prisoners’ ranking officer and his second, sir,” the Irish officer said, saluting smartly.

  “Thank you, Haverty. Your men will stand by to escort this pair away,” the Englishman in the yellow jacket said, closing his missal and setting it atop the campaign table.

  “Sir!” Haverty barked and saluted once more before stepping back to join the guards behind Lee and Jimbo.

  “You are Americans,” the Englishman said in mild rebuke. “We are, sir,” Lee said, giving this officer his due. For now. “We’ve had our share of troubles with Americans,” Charles Gordon said. “Hard to determine where your loyalties lie, what with your own country at war with itself.”

  The seated man said something in sibilant Chinese, and Gordon nodded before going on.

  “Prince Kung wishes to know if you were acquainted with the late Frederic Ward,” Gordon said. “The Chinese cannot fathom the world beyond China’s borders. They reckon it a small place where each man knows the other.”

  “We never met the guy, sir,” Lee said. He heard Jimbo swallow hard beside him.

  “Just as well. Though Ward was a man of courage and certainly possessed of a martial spirit, he was quite mad. It was a job of work to continue what he started here. A deuced job of work.” Gordon sniffed before turning to the prince to offer a translation of Lee’s reply. The Prince lifted his head from the book to give the pair of strangers a brief glance of bland interest.

  “What is your purpose here? My officer tells me you are making way to Nanking. To what end?” Gordon demanded. All pretense at civility was over now. This was an interrogation.

  “We were hired by a merchant back in Kowloon, sir,” Lee said, stating the cover story they all memorized. “He has some goods, bolts of silk, in a warehouse in Nanking. He’s paying us to confiscate it.”

  “His name?” Gordon said, an eyebrow rising.

  “Hing Fat, sir. A silk merchant in Mulberry Street. He has holdings all over Szechuan province, sir.”

  “And is
he aware that Nanking is currently invested with a half-million rebels likely to object to you visiting his silk warehouse?”

  “He is, sir. But he’s also aware that Nanking is about to fall to the Imperial army. He’s paying us to get inside and secure his warehouse against looters.”

  “Six of you,” Gordon sniffed. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re quite certain that Nanking is about to fall?”

  “For us, it’s already in the history books, sir,” Lee said. He heard Jimbo gulp again.

  “Well, those unfortunates dangling out there told a different story, captain,” Gordon said, his tone darkening.

  “Sir?” Lee said, voice level, eyes focused over Gordon’s shoulder as the man stepped closer.

  “They were Taiping spies. They bear the mark of the Heavenly King on their backs. And they told us that, until this morning, they were coolies for you, helping you find your way to Nanking through our piquet,” Gordon said, voice rumbling.

  “Sir...” Lee began.

  “Trust me, captain, I have cause to believe the word of those wretches over anything you might declare to be the truth.” Gordon turned from the two Rangers.

  “You’re calling me a liar?” Lee left off the required “sir” this time. Gordon stiffened, composed himself and went on speaking in a professorial tone edged with menace.

  “The Chinese excel in many areas of endeavor. But no more so than their attention to minute detail. You will find nowhere else in the world, a place where nearly every exchange, transaction, and agreement is so thoroughly documented as here in the land of the Celestials. If what you are promising me is the truth indeed, you would have already presented me with a packet of papers including your contract with the Hong Kong merchant, travel vouchers, and signed warrants from both the English in the colony and the mandarins of Szechuan.” He concluded, one corner of his mouth turned upward, satisfied at his unassailable logic.

  Lee began to protest, but Gordon held up a hand and turned his head to listen to the prince who was speaking softly, eyes still on the pages of his book.

  “Prince Kung would see you flayed alive or perhaps quartered,” Gordon said after bowing to the prince. “I assured him I would not even consider doing either to Christian men. So, you will hang with your fellow spies in the morning. Time to set your affairs in order for the sake of your eternal souls.”

  Lee took a step forward. Jimbo grabbed his arm. From the shadows of the tent behind Prince Kung stepped two Mongol swordsmen, curved swords raised. The muscles of their bare chests and arms tensed for the swing.

  “See them to the cells, Lieutenant Haverty.” Gordon sniffed.

  The officer in the black jacket barked. Jimbo and Lee were prodded with bayonets back toward the white light beyond the tent opening. Jimbo looked back to see Gordon standing with his back to them, hands clasped behind him and the prince with head lowered, his attention absorbed in the adventures of Tom Sawyer.

  21

  Down on the Baja

  The camp looked like any other bunch of gringo tourists living rough on the Baja. A tarp stretched from the open hatch of an SUV. Camp chairs and a folding playpen in the shade. Plastic coolers and tubs, sleeping bags, and mosquito netting. A campfire of red embers surrounded by stones, a coffee pot bubbling at its edge.

  The Toyota was backed into a sandy niche in some rocks well up a jeep trail. It offered shelter from the desert wind and protection from the afternoon sun. The camp was nearly invisible from the trail in a copse of paloverde and boojum trees.

  They loaded up on canned and dried food at a market on their way through Migriño before hooking east into the San Felipe. The coolers were loaded with ice to keep eggs and milk good for a week. Bags of cloth diapers and their luggage packed with changes of clothes. They were off the grid in a remote place with the protective camouflage of a family on an adventure vacation. It all looked like something out of an SUV ad except for the endless bitching of a guy in a leg cast.

  Dwayne had unbolted the rear bench seat from the Sequoia to make a couch for Rick. He rigged up makeshift traction as best he could using tent cording suspended from the lowest branch of a tree. They had a month’s worth of oxycodone to manage Ricky’s pain, and more importantly, his mood. At least to the extent that pharmaceuticals could blunt Renzi’s abrasive manner.

  “How long do we have to sit on our asses in this shithole, bro?” he barked at Dwayne ,who was helping Caroline change the baby’s diaper.

  “You have to sit on your ass until that leg heals anyway. What do you care?” Dwayne said, folding the soiled cloth and stuffing it in a plastic bag with others.

  “This is one fucked up escape strategy. We’re going to sit here and let these assholes find us again?” Ricky said.

  “We keep our heads down, and they can’t locate us. It’s about low profile. Not doing anything that lets them get a fix on us,” Dwayne said.

  “It’s Mexico. We have money. We could be in a five star under any name we pick with room service. But you want to play Eagle Scout,” Ricky said.

  “Look, Ricky, Dwayne is doing the best he can,” Caroline said from where she knelt in the shade under the tarp, struggling to fasten the diaper on a ticklish Stephen. “We go to a hotel, or anywhere where there’s people, and we risk exposure. We’re not even sure how they’re tracking us. So, we stay here and figure our next move.”

  “Motherfuckers from the future. What did we do to get them this pissed?” Ricky snorted.

  “We stole Sir Neal’s nuclear reactor and the time travel technology that he financed,” Caroline said, lifting Stephen, wriggling, and grasping, to her.

  “And we know a lot of shit he’d rather not have known,” Dwayne added, snaking a beer from the cooler and cracking the top. “What would happen if we went public? Imagine that shitstorm. Some billionaire asshole trying to change the present by visiting the past. Alternate universes. Imagine that.”

  Rick nodded. “We’d have more than this Harnesh dickhead wanting to kill us. That’s real deep conspiracy shit there. We’d have the CIA looking to whack us over that.”

  “You’re catching on,” Dwayne said and took a long draw of Rolling Rock.

  “How about one for me,” Ricky said, holding out a hand. “Oxy and beer? I don’t think that’s a good mix,” Caroline said. She was sitting the baby on the blanket and offering him a bowl of Cheerios.

  “If it’ll shut him up, I’m saying ‘hells, yeah,’” Dwayne said and tossed a can from the cooler.

  “Like having a brew is going to kill me after all the shit I’ve been through.” Ricky easily snagged the can from the air.

  A rustling in the brush. Dwayne turned, a hand to the Colt auto tucked in the waistband at his back under an aloha shirt. Ricky drew his .38 from behind his pillow. Caroline’s free hand moved to the butt end of a shotgun lying under a baby blanket by her side.

  N’itha stepped into the camp with a pheasant swinging from either hand. She’d returned to nature, to the familiar on this getaway. Her only concession to civilization was a pair of cut-off jeans. Other than that, she was naked. She smiled to the others before crouching by the fire and began pulling feathers from the carcasses.

  “How did you do that?” Caroline asked. N’itha looked at her, puzzled.

  “How did you kill those birds? You don’t have a weapon,” Caroline said.

  N’itha shrugged and picked up a golf-ball sized pebble from the ground by the fire. She held it up for Caroline to see.

  “That’s my baby,” Ricky said with a dreamy smile, his beer raised to her.

  22

  The Cells

  They were broken up to be shoved into separate cells. The cell Lee Hammond and Chaz shared was a forty-foot square cellar set in one of the fort’s thick walls. A windowless box with a packed dirt floor. A heavy wooden door crossed with iron bands stood flush in the wall at one end. The only source of light or air was through a barred slot set in the door at eye level. The interior was stifling;
the body heat of the two men turned the enclosed space into an oven.

  From somewhere outside, the sound of men singing in chorus reached them.

  “I know that hymn,” Chaz said. “‘Children of the Heavenly King.’”

  “Nice to know we’ll be lynched by God-fearing men,” Lee said. There was no thorough search of their clothes or persons before they were shoved into the cell. Lee was grateful for that. Bat Jaffe’s gender was still a secret. For now.

  Because they weren’t competently frisked, they each had clasp knife still concealed on them. Chaz’s was in a sheath inside his boot. Lee had one strapped to his leg with surgical tape. In addition, Lee had a cutting wire hidden inside the leather of his belt. No conversation was needed between the two men. When the door to their cell reopened, they’d fight. Hopeless as it was, they wouldn’t walk to the gallows easily. They knew the others would have blades and other weapons squirreled away and would be preparing in the same way.

  “You know what’s weird about this?” Chaz said, seated along the wall watching Lee pace the four steps from one end of the cell to the other.

  “I can’t think of one damned thing that isn’t weird about any of this,” Lee said.

  “This is our first one of these missions where we ran into people who speak English,” Chaz said.

  “If you call it that,” Lee said. “That big guy outside of the fort? I needed subtitles.”

  “What was that? A Scot?”

  “That asshole Gordon sure liked to hear himself talk,” Lee said, leaning on the cell door, head canted to see what he could see through the barred slot. The corridor they were in ended in a dead end of a T-intersection. He could just see a pair of guards moping where the two corridors met.