Three Degrees: Book 1, The Tempestas Series

by Jim Wurst

  “Yes.” Elaboration was unnecessary.

  “And that’s the most direct route to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “If we go around, we’re flying over Lagos at night.”

  “Yes.” The weariness of a positive word.

  “Savimbi it is.”

  “Want to explain that?” Theo turned around to see Sam at the door.

  “Explain what?”

  “Savimbi, of course. Who is that?”

  “He controls the northern slums. Flying over his territory has its risks.”

  “He has surface-to-air missiles?”

  “Of course.” He did a few mental calculations. Then he called out to Robert. “We’re not leaving yet.”

  “Why not?” Robert asked from behind a dune.

  “We have to rearrange the cargo.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Wendy walked carefully, avoiding the used condoms and discarded wrappers at least she had the satisfaction of knowing the trash included the condoms she distributed, Iks vials, smashed booze bottles, various human excretions, even a few bent needles, indicating a heroin user. This surprised her a bit. The Point was not known for its heroin users. Heroin was the champagne of drugs. With such a storied history, its heroism in beating back even climate change, it was the connoisseur’s drug of choice. The heroin user looked down on the amateurs and posers who favored this season’s designer batch of chemical. Marijuana was lame, your grandfather’s crutch. Besides it was legal. Cocaine was no longer pure enough to maintain the supplies as the Andes dried out required chemical boosts. It was a mongrel drug, unworthy of serious consideration. But heroin, ah that was the only drug if you knew what you were doing. The shadow people of the Point couldn’t have cared less.

  Wendy was well known around here. This strip of corroded storage tanks was the poor part of town compared to the club scene. This was where kids too broke for the clubs fought, screwed and died. Wendy was one of the few people to come down here who wasn’t looking for a fix. Even if no one knew who she was, she would still stand out. No one who spent time at the Point could ever be as, well, round as Wendy. Her full face and stout hands marked her as an outsider.

  She counted off the tanks, looking for the one with a vulture painted on the side. From the shadows, she heard an uninspired groan, a junkie’s orgasm. Someone was opening up for a fix. It was an Iks trick.

  Wendy found the vulture. No guarantee she would be here, but that’s what the dealer told her. She wouldn’t give him money and he didn’t even bother to ask for drugs, so he must have assumed helping might benefit him further down the road. Maybe he thought he could start a side career as a rich kid bounty hunter.

  “Slasher?” Wendy called into the darkness. “Vik?” She instinctively knew not to call out for “Victoria,” impossible that a girl in her state would allow herself to be called by such a regal name. Wendy didn’t know how right she was. Vik never called herself “Victoria” and not “Vicky.” Even though she was named after her grandmother, she always felt her parents naming her Victoria was a cheap shot, a lifelong mocking of what she could never be. “Vik” sounded like the noise you heard when the high slammed your brain.

  An addled young man rose from the heap. “I’ll be Vik if you’ve got some Iks.”

  “Here’s some food,” handing over a bar. It wasn’t drugs or sex, but he was hungry, so he took it. “Where’s Slasher?”

  “She a wasted little kid?” he asked, as if that narrowed the search.

  “Yes.” Why not, keep him talking.

  “Hey, Vik, we’ve got a new batch!” He grinned a stupid grin of satisfaction at his cleverness as he held out his hand. Somehow, he was surprised that all he got was more food.

  A reedy cough preceded a crumpled shape.

  “Gimme.”

  “Come on, Slasher, I want to show you something.” Wendy led her out of the tank and towards some open space. Vik slumped and Wendy handed her a bar and a bottle of water. The girl stared at these exotic objects as Wendy took out her phone and called the number.

  “You have her?” the sharp female voice said.

  Wendy paused, wondering how the mystery woman knew before realizing, of course this is a person with resources, it’s probably a number she used only for this enterprise. “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was the woman’s turn to pause. “’Ma’am’? Who are you?”

  “My name is Wendy Villar. I run the Haven at Marbury Point. I was told you were looking for Victoria Cranston.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Senator George Cranston’s daughter.”

  “And you want the reward. Or maybe score a few points with the next president? Don’t try it. Trying to blackmail me would be useless.”

  Wendy had a great deal of tolerance for junkies, not so much for bullies.

  “Look, ma’am…” It was getter harder not to spit out that word. “I run a kind of shelter here. I feel bad enough that I’m making this effort for a rich kid when at least three poor kids are going to die tonight. You can take your money and stuff it… you can keep it.”

  There was an oddly long pause. “The Haven, you said… Yes… I see.” Wendy realized the woman must be reading about the shelter on her computer. “Wendy Villar. Sister Wendy Villar. Interesting that you didn’t introduce yourself that way.”

  “And I find it interesting that you haven’t introduced yourself at all.”

  “Do you have a car? How soon can you get to the southeast corner of Lincoln Park?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “Fine.” And she hung up. Wendy was sure if she called again, she would get a recording to tell her it was not a working number.

  Wendy and Vik arrived at the corner, a business neighborhood where everything was closed this late at night. Vik was stirring from her stupor, uncertain if she was still high. “Come on,” Wendy said, dragging her out of the car, “You need to walk.”

  “Shuddup.”

  “Come on.” She was practical at the art of forceful persuasion.

  “Whodahelluryou?”

  As she propped Vik against the wall, a heavy dark car pulled. Shielded, no doubt. A woman got out of the back seat. Pretty much what Wendy had envisioned. Lean, a stride like a panther, well-dressed but not flashy. Wendy did not, however, expect a blonde; she pictured a flaming redhead.

  The woman walked over to the pair. “Sister Wendy?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman looked at Vik. For a flash, Wendy thought she saw a genuine emotion cross the woman’s face. “Victoria,” she said, trying to sound gentle.

  Vik, maybe roused by the sound of her full name, stared into the darkness. Muddled by everything around her, it took a long time before something from her past surfaced. “You,” she hissed, the verbal equivalent of a claw to the cheek. “He sent you. Too weak to do it himself. Sends the bitch-in-waiting.”

  “Get in the car, Victoria.” Ah yes, she was used to giving orders. Vik turned on Wendy, “Bitch, you koched me!” Filled with a rage she knew she couldn’t use, she turned back to the blonde. “I’m not going to that house.”

  “You’re right, you’re not. Now get in the car.” When she repeated the command, the driver got out of the car, his bulk rising high above the three women. Someone else used to giving orders.

  Wendy couldn’t decide if it was resignation or fear that propelled the girl forward. The black car swallowed her. Once certain that her charge was secured, the woman turned to Wendy.

  “Thank you,” she finally said, “Father MacIntyre will stop by tomorrow. Do with it as you wish.”

  She worked fast, Wendy thought. She had to admire the efficiency.

  CHAPTER 70

  It was late afternoon when Theo announced over the radio: “We’re entering Lagos airspace, which means we’re entering Savi
mbi airspace. You have the coordinates for the UN compound. Separate, fly as fast and high as you can. The next five minutes will not be pleasant.”

  “See you in half an hour,” Sam said encouragingly.

  “Sure.” Sam could hear the shrug over the radio.

  The three ships were still flying in close formation, with the EuroNet jet restraining its ability to fly faster and higher. With Theo’s last shrug, the EuroNet pilot let loose, climbing high and fast, veering away from the city. Within minutes, the jet would change course again and make a wide loop towards the UN House. But by then, they would be out of sight of the sand-huggers.

  Theo and Robert put as much distance between their ships as possible. The unspoken strategy was to ensure if one ship was hit, the shrapnel was less likely to hit the other. It was a well-timed maneuver because an aerial blast went off exactly where Robert’s ship had been. The weapon wasn’t an old-fashioned anti-aircraft “gun power” explosion, but a mix of traditional explosives and electromagnetic pulse, meaning the actual explosion was small but the shock waves were potent. The next blast was more accurate, spinning Robert’s ship out of control. He was just regaining control when they heard a voice over the radio.

  “You are flying unauthorized through our airspace. Land immediately to be inspected for contraband.”

  The sand-huggers were painted with the universal UN coloring all white with a large blue “UN” on the sides and wings. The voice knew who he was talking to.

  Theo answered immediately. “We are United Nations ships on a humanitarian mission. It is essential that we reach the UN House quickly.” Flipping off the radio momentarily, he turned to Raj. “Call Asanti on your phone, it’s not likely they can monitor it, tell him where we are. He might get police out here.”

  “You think the police would come out here?”

  “No.”

  The voice from the ground replied. “What you say means nothing to us. Land.”

  As if to punctuate the demand, a second explosive pulse clipped the wing on Robert’s jet. He was still unstable from the first shot, the second sent the ship spiraling to the ground.

  “Stop firing. We are landing,” Theo said, with undisguised horror in his voice.

  The business-like voice continued. “Look starboard. There’s a beacon signal in a landing pad near you. Land immediately.”

  The pad was actually the courtyard of a large walled complex. It wasn’t very large, but big enough for Theo to execute a vertical landing without problem. As soon as he cut the engines, raggedy soldiers in cast-off uniforms but brand new rifles surrounded the craft. Theo and Raj came out with their hands up. Two soldiers motioned them away from the ship as the rest swarmed inside.

  “That way,” the first soldier said, pointing with his rifle towards the main building in the compound.

  The four walked across the field and into the building. There were soldiers on the roof and guarding a large metal double door, with a deliberately visible laser array crisscrossing the doorway. One of the guards pressed a button on a handheld. The lasers turned off, an electronic lock snapped, and the doors swung open. The four walked in and the door was shut, and the laser reactivated instantly.

  Despite high ceilings, wide corridors, and the abundance of windows, the building was stifling. There were few lights. The spaciousness of the building, the interior courtyard large enough for multiple vehicles and a landing pad suggested to Theo that this was once a hospital. The windows were glass-less, but there were thick metal plates above that could easily drop to seal the windows from any human or mechanical enemy. A series of ceiling fans provided the only relief from the stagnant air that covered everything. Other than that, a scattering tables and chairs, there was no furniture.

  There was no shortage of soldiers, however. Every few meters, at least one heavily armed militia man watched them. Their eyes followed them slowly, cautiously. Even though Theo and Raj had no weapons, but their escorts were armed. The wall-leaning soldiers still gripped their rifles when they passed. Out of boredom or caution, it didn’t matter to Theo. The menace was there.

  As they walk down the hall, all the rooms that had doors were shut. They walked up a flight of stairs to a room with a large double door. Again, the lasers, and there were even more soldiers. These men had the better rifles. Standing in front of the door was a man wearing a better uniform and insignias meant to suggest some high rank. He had a side arm but no rifle.

  One soldier saluted. “Our guests, colonel.”

  The colonel glanced at them, like a bored cat noticing a dead mouse, and then motioned to the guards, who turned off the laser and opened the door. The colonel walked in first, followed by the prisoners, then the guards. Theo and Raj looked around. They were in a large room. Originally it was probably an office of a high-ranking official or many a conference room. Unlike other rooms they had seen, this one had tall windows covered by translucent glass, undoubtedly bulletproof. Some light got in, but no air. It wasn’t stuffy, but they both noticed the air was much cooler. The tingle on their sweaty skin told them an air conditioner had been on recently. It had been turned off in anticipation of their arrival. Comfort was not a priority.

  Besides the windows, some light was coming in through a skylight. The sole electric light was on the huge desk at the far end of the room. The lack of light made it hard to make out everything, there were many shadows. Boxes were stacked in the dim corners with weapons. Loot. The only furniture besides the desk was a beat-up conference table with eight beat-up chairs and one very nice chair at the head of the table. Also, unlike the rest of the compound, the room was spotless.

  The desk was monumental, the accessory of a president or general. It was a classic “back of the cave” set-up for the arrangement of a boss. They set the desk back opposite the door. Anyone had to cross the open room to approach, making them both metaphorically and physically vulnerable. “You must come to me.” The desk was both a barrier: you can’t touch me and an altar, you shall not touch me.

  As large as the desk was, it was dwarfed by the man sitting behind it. A huge, roiling tank of a man. Even sitting, his bulk was unmistakable. He was leaning back in a tall, cushioned chair, his face hidden. But his hands resting on the arms of the chair were clearly visible. They were strong and thick, instruments of murder.

  Nothing was on the desk except the lamp, a water bottle, a few papers, and a gold-plated pistol, positioned under the lamp so that visitors had to notice the glint of the weapon. As he leaned forward, his face came into the light. Heavy angry eyes, surrounded by a deeply scarred face. Theo couldn’t decide if the scars were war wounds or ritual. His mouth was shut tight. He was clean shaven and wearing a crisp military style uniform, with the stars of a general on his shoulders. His right hand moved noticeably closer to the golden weapon.

  The party walked towards the desk; the colonel stopped the men a meter short of the desk close enough for the general to see them but far enough away that if either of them were insane enough to lug at him, they wouldn’t even get close. The soldiers stood a few paces behind the prisoners.

  The colonel shouted at them, “This is General Marcus Savimbi. You will stand at attention!”

  The civilians did their best imitation of standing at attention. It wasn’t impressive. Savimbi didn’t care. “Who are you and why are you in my airspace without permission?”

  “I am Dr. Theodore van Bissem and this is my colleague Dr. Raj Gupta. We are attached to the UN Biogeological Station A4 in Katsina. We are on a humanitarian mission, bringing medical supplies to the WHO. We are unaware that anyone other than the government of Nigeria has sovereignty over Lagos airspace.”

  “’The government of Nigeria’ how quaint. If you work in Nigeria, you know that there is no such thing. So now you’ve insulted me twice. Give the colonel your IDs and let’s see if you’ve insulted me three times.”

  They obliged.
The colonel scanned the embed on their UN-issued ID cards. He was unimpressed and handed them back. “Legitimate, sir.”

  “What about their ship?”

  Again, the colonel checked his hand-held.

  “Nothing inconsistent with their story. Medical equipment, medicines, rations. No weapons, no contraband. Their supplies are being brought up now.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to get off with a fine.” Casting about to find something else to interest him, Savimbi settled on Raj. “What happened to your arm?”

  “My mother had the bad timing of being pregnant during a nuclear attack.”

  “Nuclear attack? You Indian or Pakistani?”

  “Indian.”

  “Hindu or Muslim?”

  “Indian.”

  “You’re bad luck,” he said, motioning to his soldiers, “I don’t want him in my presence.”

  Suddenly, the soldiers cared deeply about Raj’s appearance and hurriedly poked their guns at him to move him out of the room.

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “He’s cursed from the womb. I don’t want his curse here,” was Savimbi’s non-answer.

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Don’t worry, I not going to have him killed. I don’t want that blood touching my ground.”

  The colonel had no interest in this stage of the drama. He had been studying his hand-held. “General, we found the other ship. Most of the crew was alive. We sent them on their way. Not much in the ship.”

  “Who’s alive?” Theo asked.

  The colonel stared at him blankly, and Savimbi answered for him. “What makes you think he’s obliged to speak to you?” He made a great show of studying the colonel’s computer, satisfied that Theo understood the general now knew more than he did. “So, the valuable cargo was in the third ship. What are you carrying?”

  “I told you, air and water purification equipment, some medicines. We put the bulk of the medical supplies on the larger ship, figuring they had the best chance of getting through.”