by Glenn Ball
Breaking camp had gone by in a blur. Hands slipped on metal stakes, the flapping canvas nearly pulling Skip and him off their feet as they folded the tent, feet sliding in mud as they hauled everything to the raft. Leaves were falling everywhere, tiny chips of wood and large drops of rain were pinging his face as they unhitched the raft, thrusting it into the raging river. Trees bowed as if welcoming them to their destruction. The rain in his mouth felt like he was being waterboarded as he lifted his feet into the raft, extracting them from the suction of the voracious current.
Helpless to reach her in time, like the time he’d received the call informing him of the death of his wife and kids, he jammed his paddle into the frothing water.
********
Alicia dried her tears on her sleeve. It was time to be strong again. She had decisions to make, and things to do if she wanted to stay alive. She stood up sniffing. She would need to gather as much food as she could carry, and she would need something to carry it in.
Covering Artie with a blanket she left the awful scene in the living room and went back to the kitchen to gather her food. Stuffing her mouth with fried chicken, she thought for a minute as to how she would carry the items she gathered. Then she remembered the backpack that Artie kept in the closet.
It did not take her long to get several days’ worth of food and drink. She also grabbed a couple of knives and a flashlight.
Returning to the closet she reached for a raincoat she had seen there and a wide-brimmed hat. As she was reaching for them, she heard something bang the door.
Every muscle tensed up. “What if it’s the police? They might think I did all this. Or worse, what if Antonio left men outside to guard the house?” The two thoughts slammed her brain like a boxer’s hard left jab followed by a knockout roundhouse.
CHAPTER 24
I Will Lift My Eyes to the Hills
Dust and sand blew into Adam’s eyes. He tried not to curse as he rubbed his eyes, irritated by the grit. At least the cycling mask was keeping the dust off the rest of his face. Trying to be grateful for that and that the sandy gusts cut through some of the desert heat, he pulled the head wrap closer about his eyes to protect them. It was crucial that he see clearly while not being seen.
The insertion into the Iraqi desert had gone well, and he had arrived outside the bunker complex without incident.
Now, deep behind enemy lines, his head was spinning. He was alone. There were no snipers watching his six, no buddies to make sure he was not left behind.
“Alzaré mis ojos a los montes; ¿De dónde vendrá mi socorro? Mi socorro viene de Jehová, Que hizo los cielos y la tierra.” He muttered his prayer while keeping his eyes on the horizon, thankful that he would never be totally alone.
Scanning the bunker compound, he began sizing it up, studying the layout. It was just as he had remembered it from the drone photos. He could see the various mounds that housed the above portions of the compound. Even this close it was hard to discern that they had been man-made. There was also a road of sorts that passed to one side of the main compound entrance. He could just make out the thick door that gave entrance to the main bunker. It was about a half a click away.
A trail of dust formed a thin cloud as he watched. Adam put his binoculars to his face. That was it, what he had been waiting for. It was the armored limo with the large armed escort coming from the airfield. To avoid detection, he had been told it would be best to await the arrival of the Mexican cartel before entering the air vent. There was an electronic sweep scheduled to take place immediately prior to the cartel’s arrival.
Spying them through his binoculars he followed their progress for several minutes. From the bluff where he was hidden, he had a clear view of them as they pulled up to the compound.
There was an aura of military efficiency about the cartel. The Humvees approached in single file. Upon arrival the Mexicans exited their vehicles at the ready. Adam kept still as stone as the men scanned their surroundings, taking in all possible dangers. After locking down their environment they opened a Humvee in the center. Armed guards stepped out forming a wall around their jefe.
The mass of soldiers seemed like a large living organism, moving as one from the motorcade through the electric fence to the bunker beyond. Then like a bunch of ants entering an anthill they disappeared down the hole. Most of them at any rate. A few still stood guard; some outside the door, a few more by the vehicles, and two by the air vent where he planned to enter.
The vent was no more than point two-five clicks from his vantage point. It would not be difficult to get there, but he could not afford to be seen. He could easily kill the guards, but that would give away his mission. While pondering his predicament he scanned the surrounding hills with his binoculars, looking for any other approach that might maintain his cover. He found none.
A strong gust kicked some more sand into his eyes, stinging them. “Sand and wind, what an annoying combination” he grumbled. “Thank God in all circumstances,” he reprimanded himself. Nevertheless, it was hard to see through his binoculars with his eyes watering.
Closing his eyes to let the dust clear out of them he meditated over the turn of events. It seemed he would either have to risk discovery by killing the guards, or he would have to abort the mission altogether.
As he was brooding, the words kept coming to his mind…“Alzaré mis ojos a los montes; ¿De dónde vendrá mi socorro? Mi socorro viene de Jehová, Que hizo los cielos y la tierra.” My help comes from the hills…he mulled the words in his mind.
He was just about to open his eyes when he felt another gust. He kept his face covered till it passed. Peering through his headwrap he saw another cloud, this time coming from the other direction just this side of the hills on his right. Could it be another caravan? He continued to watch it, and it was growing on a massive scale. “This is no motorcade!” he said to himself. It was ominous as it rolled like a wall of mountains toward the bunker compound, swallowing everything in its path like a voracious monster of the air that stretched from horizon to horizon.
********
The soldiers huddled in the darkness, the close air of the tent afoul with body odor and stale breath. The desert night was still, free of the roar of trucks and the ratter tatter of gunfire that had daily assaulted their ears. The silence in the tent accentuated the soft voice of the “old-timer” as he recounted the terrors of the desert to the newest crew to the Iraqi fighting.
“Aside from all that you got the sandstorms. I heard tale of men lost in sandstorms whose faces had peeled right off, literally scraped off by the coarse sand. I also heard of men being engulfed inch by inch in the sand till they could not move and were slowly buried alive.
“One man had lived to give me his own account. He said his feet and legs had become pinned in the sand; then his arms, and finally it was up to his neck. ‘At this point many would already be crushed to death’ he said. But he was not. He said he could no longer move anything but his head. He prayed the storm would continue till he was buried alive so that he could die a more merciful death. He did not get the answer to his prayer that he’d hoped for.
“He had known others to gladly welcome death by suffocation by opening their mouths and letting the wind jam the sand down till their lungs were full.
“He had no such opportunity. When the sand reached his chin and he could no longer move his head the storm blew by. Out came the sun, and his greatest terror was realized. Two days passed with no water, while he literally baked in the hot sands, the skin of his face already brushed completely raw from the sand of the storm. It began to blister in the white heat of the sun beating down on it. Once a scorpion passed right by his eye. He waited what seemed an eternity for it to sting him right on the eyeball but thanked God when it left. Late in the second day someone found and rescued him.”
********
Valencia had been one of the newbies when he’d heard these stories. Having been accustomed to dust storms in the Sonora desert he only ga
ve half-credence to these tales of terror. The storm that was now approaching however was like nothing he’d ever seen.
The wind was beginning to pick up, hissing in his ears as he watched the all-encompassing clouds tower over the compound. The soldiers had all dashed into the bunkers to escape the coming fury. He alone was out in the torment. At least now he could approach the air vent undetected.
Putting on his motorcycle goggles he began his trek toward the air vent. The haze preceding the dense part of the storm had already begun to cover the bunkers as he set out. On his arm he wore a GPS like a wristwatch. It had the precise coordinates of the vent programmed into it. He would follow it blindly, as a pilot follows his instrument panel to land a plane.
Sprinting hard he covered half the distance to his goal before the sand began to blow sideways all around him. The air about him was filled with so much sand it seemed like he was looking through a speckled brown curtain. Keeping his course straight by following the GPS he strained to charge as fast as he could.
The wind kept growing fiercer as he pushed forward. It was more like a roar than a hiss at this point. According to the GPS he had covered nearly three quarters of the distance, but the wind was a fierce fighter. It constantly tugged at his head wrap, threatening to yank it clean from his face.
He could barely trudge forward as his feet bogged down in the sand. In the blinding fury of sand and the pitch black that now enveloped him he kept his eyes fixed on the bright backlit GPS. The winds kept growing more intense, threatening to completely lift him off his feet. The sands of time were mounting against him, but he firmly maintained his hope as the numbers on the GPS showed him inching toward the vent.
Ignoring the irony of seeking the refuge of the enemy bunker where he would be surrounded by hundreds of trained killers sworn to strip “infidels” like him of life and limb he plunged forward. Every step was a tug-of-war with the wind, as if five strong men were tugging at his clothes from every direction. He could feel the sand accumulating on his clothes, weighing on his hood like someone pushing his head down. He could barely lift his arm to see the GPS. Agonizing as he plowed through bucket-loads of sand he noted with relief that the GPS at last indicated he had arrived.
He put his hands exactly where the GPS indicated that the air vent should be. There was nothing but sand.
********
The musty smell was overpowering. It did not matter that the bunkers were state-of-the-art, and that the tunnels were equipped to meet all the basic essential needs a man could have, the fact that they were underground was sufficient to make one feel as if in a prison. All lighting was artificial. There were absolutely no windows. The hallways were tight and narrow with a low ceiling, and with their winding and twisting made one dizzy and disoriented.
The upper tunnels were built on a steady decline, taking one to the lower levels where an elaborate system of tunnels interconnected. At the lowest level Ochoa and Al-Faheem were in a deep and very confidential discussion. Surrounded by plush leather furniture they smoked their cigars as they searched the others’ eyes; not like lovers, but as those who spend their lives basing life-and-death-decisions on their evaluations of others. It was a rare ability and long-practiced habit of both to view others down to their core thoughts and motivations, much like bombers ferret out the information of who is at the core of the bunkers by using infrared equipment before they make their attack.
“Gloria al Allah, all is set as per your instructions,” Ochoa broke the silence. Abdul had now heard various accounts of how Antonio had converted to Islam, and they all coincided; nevertheless, he had never been fully convinced the conversion was genuine. It was probably just a gesture to enable him to have dealings with Abdul Al-Faheem and RAMKAJ.
“We have succeeded in getting our zika-immune prostitutes strategically placed, and the hemorrhagic zika virus has begun to break out,” Ochoa Machado went on. He let out a coarse laugh. As he did so the lights began to flicker.
Outside the storm was raging, but here in the bunker they were so insulated all seemed normal, except the lights.
Ochoa continued, “Their health department has been scrambling trying to get a handle on it. They’re baffled that it’s become hemorrhagic.” Lights were browning out like a candle in a breeze. “And they haven’t even discovered how bad it can get yet!” Ochoa was waiting for some kind of positive reaction, but Abdul’s face was like a stone alternately cast in shadow then light as the electricity fluctuated.
“It’s the generator.” Al-Faheem read his consternation and offered the explanation to ease his distraction. “They can’t refuel it with the storm outside. Not to worry, a backup generator will soon take its place.”
“Oh, okay; no problem.”
All went dark. It was darkness so thick one could feel it, like reaching out and touching the walls of one’s tomb. Strangely enough it brought comfort to Antonio. He felt right at home, like being in his beloved dungeon.
Abdul struck a match, and as he lit a candle the flame danced in Ochoa Machado’s eyes, unveiling the love of darkness there. It actually gave Abdul a start.
“All the XK23 is in place.” The sadistic gleam in his eye was unmistakable even in the faint candle glow.
“And the semi that turned over?” Abdul’s cold tone evidenced a mind unimpressed and ready to condemn the failure as worthy of death.
“We leave nothing to chance. It was quickly mopped up, and the prize moved to another semi that has now reached its destination. Dallas will be ready on time.” There was an assurance of absolute competence in Ochoa’s voice. It was the tone of one who never makes mistakes. If others make mistakes, he cleans them up. “In every destination XK23 has been successfully substituted for the mosquito pesticide. The zika virus is rapidly spreading to plague proportions putting the local governments in a tailspin. The federal government is stepping in and is considering our contract even now as we speak. They will be begging for you to come and release your poison. There will be enough planes to saturate them with the poison as per their request.” He let out a sadistic laugh. “Little do they know it will be their pitiful citizens that are poisoned; not the mosquitos.”
Abdul’s eyes did not let up, but rather remained fixed, even tightening the lids in somewhat of a squint, like the eye of a sniper with its target in its sights. “And there is no chance of a slip-up...No one that might squeal like a stuck pig?”
Antonio did not flinch. Every nerve inside of him had jumped at the insinuation of Alicia, but he refused to show it. How could Abdul know about Alicia? If he did, how much did he know? Could he possibly be trying to push his buttons? All these thoughts spun through Ochoa’s mind, but his face revealed nothing.
“No Señor. Those who know enough to betray our plans know enough that to betray me is to wish for death. They would never dare take the risk.” Antonio firmly held those penetrating eyes without yielding, but the searchlight seemed to be scorching his insides.
Suddenly the lights came back on brighter than ever, taking away the comfort that the blanket of darkness provided Ochoa.
“And your prostitute that has escaped…I understand she has been close to you for years now and may know quite a lot. Has she been found?”
There it was. He did know about Alicia. How in the f***g hell did he find out? Antonio cursed his bad luck, yet still did not let his thoughts show.
“We have been tracking her. So far, she has met one person, and we killed him. She will soon be in our possession again before she has a chance to endanger our mission. Do not be concerned about her.”
“Oh, but I concern myself with everything that has to do with this mission. It is what I live and breathe.” Mr. Abdul leaned toward Antonio for emphasis. “Let me make myself clear. If you fail me in any way you fail Allah, and you will suffer the consequences. He is God Almighty, and he does not accept failure.” Al-Faheem’s eyes held Ochoa’s for the better part of a minute, neither wanting to be the first to back down.
Oc
hoa Machado obstinately fixed his eyes as he insisted, “We will find her, and she will not be permitted to endanger the mission. I am not accustomed to having to repeat myself, and I will not tolerate doubt from anyone I do business with Señor Abdul. Not even you.”
CHAPTER 25
Departures into Danger
Alicia jumped out of the closet. Her heart was banging even louder than the door. Who was out there?
Sneaking up to the window she peeked through a curtain. There was nobody there. Then she heard scratching at the door, followed by a thump. “Maybe he’s flat up against the wall so I can’t see him” she said to herself.
Then there was a bark, and she understood. It was Spot, one of Artie’s dogs. It had gotten loose. She was relieved. Nevertheless, she scanned the yard to make sure there really was nobody else there. It was imperative that she leave promptly to avoid problems with the police and Jorge’s gang. But first she would briefly tend to Spot.
Opening the door, she reached down to pet it. Spot was so happy to get some attention it wagged half its body as it licked her up and down. She gave it a few bites of dry meat which it chugged as fast as she gave it.
As she petted it again, Spot suddenly ran to the living room and went straight to Artie’s body. Nudging the body with its nose it began to whine. There was no response from the body. Spot turned back toward her as if questioning. Circling the body while sniffing the floor around it, Spot was getting the whole story. It then stuck its snout up to Artie’s face. A few whiffs settled the matter…Spot turned its head toward the sky and began to howl mournfully. The master was dead. Everything Spot lived for had died.
Alicia could feel the pain welling up inside of her. She too had lost a master; one that had been so cruel she never wanted to see him again. And she too had lost Artie and could feel the pang of loss in his death.