Sahara Dawn

by David F. Berens

  He noticed that the aircraft was losing altitude. He was sure that was because the pilot was taking the plane to a height where they could safely open the doors. ‘Safely’ for those who planned to stay in the aircraft. Not so safely for those who were going to be thrown out if they refused to give up information.

  “Let me ask you,” Chris said. “Did you plan to kill us before you throw us into the Amazon, or did you want to make us wait in the air and watch our death slowly approach?”

  “I know which is more fun,” White-Suit replied.

  “I know which is cleaner too,” Chris said. “I’m guessing your boss told you to avoid spraying blood all over this cabin, even though this plane should’ve been decommissioned years ago. I bet some of you scumbags still think you’re traveling in style.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Collins. We will make a mess of you, but not up here. Now, stand up.”

  Chris stood and put his hands on his head. He glanced down at Tsu looking so peaceful with her eyes closed.

  He stepped towards the man who was pointing a gun at him.

  “Not too close,” the man instructed angrily. Chris stopped. But he knew his chance would come. When the plane tilted sharply as it had so many times already, there would be a brief moment when the man would try to steady himself. If Chris moved quickly enough, that brief moment might be all he needed. Right now, the man was just staring, his eyes yellow as if stained by tobacco. White-Suit then stepped towards Tsu while keeping the gun trained on Chris.

  “She’s going first,” he snarled. “So you can watch her. I hope she wakes up mid-air, that should be a nice surprise.” He stroked Tsu’s face with the back of his hand while looking hard at Chris.

  “I bet she goes down very well. You did well for yourself there. You made a beautiful couple.”

  The tilt came. Chris dropped and extended his legs so they were rigid as he traveled just above the floor, gliding like a missile over the dirty carpet. Both feet collided with a man’s left leg, one on the shin and one on the kneecap, which twisted as cartilage squelched. The man howled, but Chris was just getting started. He was back on his feet and delivered a crushing headbutt to the bridge of the man’s nose while the guy’s bloodshot eyes were wide with surprise. The weapon popped from his hand and skidded down the aisle. He slumped onto the table in front of Tsu.

  As he lay there, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a knife. He sprung up and took a swipe at Chris, who bent double to bring his stomach back as the blade arced an inch from his guts. The man was now standing and ready to fight. He swung the knife again, this time towards Chris’s throat. Chris brought up his forearm to block it and was brutally slashed. He could already tell the wound was deep, but he had no time to think about that now. He hacked at the knife-carrying arm right where the ligaments that link to the fingers were most likely to pop and release the knife. It was one of his oldest tricks. It didn’t work. These arms were solid.

  White-Suit growled as he thrust a punch towards Chris’s head with his left hand while Chris was concentrating on the right. It caught Chris on the temple and rattled his brain. It was a heavy blow, and for a second he lost his bearings. Before he could get them back, another blow struck. He stumbled back, hitting the arm of the chair and sliding down towards the floor. The man was now standing over him. Over the guy’s shoulder, Chris could see that another, even larger man was emerging from the cockpit.

  “Where the hell have you been?” White-Suit asked without turning around.

  “Engine trouble.”

  “We had some trouble out here too, but I dealt with it. On my own. Let’s get these bastards out of here. We don’t need all this extra weight on board.”

  Chris was trying to get to his feet, but White-Suit stepped forward and kicked him hard between the legs. The shock ran through Chris’s body. The big guy at the back was already opening the doors as White-Suit leaned down and put the knife to Chris’s throat.

  “Get up,” he said coldly and quietly. While the knife was to Chris’s throat, a gun was also pointed at his head, held in the thick, gnarled hands of the man standing behind White-Suit. He felt a fear he had never felt. Throughout his career, he had always told himself there was a way out if you look hard enough. But right now, any kind of way out seemed impossible to find, especially with only seconds to do it. He glanced towards Tsu, whose eyes were still firmly closed.

  Chris was being shuffled towards the open door. Wind was whipping around the cabin, blowing Tsu’s hair and making it slap her face. The white suit was flapping noisily, the loose and untailored excess fabric now more obvious than ever. It’s funny that kind of meaningless details you notice when you’re about to die, Chris thought to himself.

  As he was moved towards the door, he could see the vast green expanse of the rainforest that would engulf his broken body. He would never be found. The two men both now had their hands on him. Clearly, they had changed their mind about throwing Tsu out first. They wanted to deal with Chris before he caused any more trouble. Not that that was likely now. He didn’t even try to struggle. That would only make the men hurl him across the cabin and out of the door immediately. He had now realized they were not after information, and had simply been instructed to dispose of their passengers. Word had clearly been passed down the line that Chris would try to help his friend, Ned, in retrieving his sister from Africa. The men on the plane had been told to remove that problem.

  Chris hoped they planned to wait for a second in the doorway to take glory in the moment they got to tip him out to meet his death. His last hope now was that he would be able to grab one of those bastards and drag them out with him. He decided White-Suit was the candidate. His smug grin and comments that he thought were witty, they were sufficient reasons. Chris would grab him by the collar just as he began to fall. He had rid the world of plenty of scumbags in his time, and he would be glad to add one more to the list right at the end.

  The men shuffled him along further, and his toes were now beyond the metal edge of the doorway as wind hammered into his face.

  “Say hello to the Amazon!” White-Suit shouted over the fearsome noise. Chris could feel the grip on his collar getting tighter as adrenaline filled the veins of the man who was about to throw him out. He would very soon be tumbling through the air.

  15 One Man

  McLean, Virginia, USA

  Ned Henry’s third floor, nine-hundred square foot apartment looked as if someone was moving in or maybe moving out. Cardboard boxes and various plastic tubs with mismatched lids sat in random locations throughout the two bedrooms, living room, and kitchen. Some were open out of necessity to find a bottle opener or a pair of underwear, but most were still sealed shut from Ned’s move to his new digs a few months ago.

  Originally, the agency had fired him. Publicly, the agency stuck to that story, but privately, they turned it into a downsizing, complete with pension and benefits. It wasn’t a replacement for his salary, but it helped keep him from being homeless.

  “Just like the CIA,” Clint Musgrave—his former supervisor—had told him as he stuffed a cardboard box with the contents of his desk, “promote to the highest level of incompetence. Looks like you went one level too high.”

  “Don’t be jealous, Clint,” Ned had retorted. “We all know no one can be as highly incompetent as you.”

  Clint had spilled his blistering hot coffee on himself while storming out of Ned’s office, requiring two days off and a trip to the burn ward at Tyson’s Corner Medical Center. After a few months, Ned was forced to downgrade his apartment. For nearly half his previous rent, he’d cut his square footage in half. He was only mildly disappointed by the fact that he could only brush his teeth or wash his hands while sitting on the toilet in his new place. No one would say his old place had been swanky, but it was a far cry from unit 201 at the MacArthur Boulevard Apartments. Pets were not allowed, but on the bright side, some of the roaches were big enough to have names.

  The backpack h
e’d taken to his sister’s place lay unzipped on his bed. He’d opened it, dumped everything out, and was repacking it. He glanced over at the bedside table. His new phone—a non-agency prepaid model that he’d bought when they took his old sat phone—was plugged in and charging. He asked the built-in assistant—Sheri, or Suri, or something like that—to dial Clint.

  “What, Ned?” the man snapped as soon as the call connected.

  “Nice to speak to you, too, Clint,” Ned said, and before the man could say anything else, he added, “I need to know what’s up with my sister. Is anyone doing anything at all?”

  “Ned,” the man sighed heavily, “even an imbecile like yourself should know that I cannot divulge that information. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I could be fired for even hinting at what I know on this line.”

  Ned opened his mouth to say something, but then thought about Clint’s odd phrasing. Hinting at what I know on this line. Clint was obviously in his office, where every single line in and out, including mobile phones, was monitored, recorded, decoded, and stored in a massive underground server for later use against the callers. Was Clint nudging him to talk to him on another line? He had no other number for the man, and besides, he only had his cell to call on. Hinting. Clint was telling him he was going to drop a hint.

  “I do know that, Clint,” Ned said, trying his best not to sound like a bad B-movie actor and failing miserably. “But what can I do, she’s my sister.”

  “I understand, Ned,” Clint said. “I mean, you can’t expect the agency to get involved.”

  Well, that wasn’t a very subtle hint.

  “I haven’t opened and looked through a new file for at least forty-eight hours,” Clint continued. “Only thing you can do is sit at home, watch the news, and wait for your sister to be released.”

  Again, Ned opened his mouth, but Clint kept going. “Or jump on a plane to Cairo. I know you had a lot of old contacts out there. Most of them are probably mummified by now but at least you can take your mind off things by visiting the pyramids.”

  He laughed boisterously. Ned could tell he was faking, but he decided it might be best to play along. “Yeah, that would be ridiculous, right? I mean, can you see me, Ned Henry, stay-at-home computer nerd, heading out on a solo mission to Egypt.”

  More over-the-top laughing.

  “Oh, that’s just crazy,” Clint said, sniffing and chuckling. “You couldn’t survive that place even if your guide was the smartest man in the city.” He emphasized that last part, smartest. Ned and Clint didn’t have many mutual contacts in Egypt, but one of them was among the most knowledgeable men Ned had ever encountered. Problem was, he wasn’t sure he still had contact info on Baniti.

  “You’re right,” Ned replied. “I wouldn’t have the first clue where to go or what to do on the streets of Cairo.”

  “If you ever go to Cairo,” Clint said, matter-of-factly over the sound of his keyboard clicking furiously, “just check out the Sphinx...and the museums...like all the other tourists. Then come home.”

  “The museums?” Ned asked.

  Nothing. The line was quiet.

  “Clint? You there?”

  Ned looked at his phone. Call disconnected. He guessed Clint had been disturbed or regretted taking the risk. Either way, Ned had a place to start. Baniti Hassan. And from what Clint said, the guy must work at or live near a museum in Cairo.

  He clicked open his laptop, activated his VPN, and ran a quick search. There were hundreds to choose from. A place so rich in ancient history and archaeology was bound to have a lot, but wow. It seemed to Ned there was one on every corner. Where to start? He added Professor Baniti Hassan to the search term and clicked.

  One result: The Museum of Egyptian Antiquities on Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt

  It took Ned barely ten minutes to stuff his clothes and toothpaste into his backpack—a nice commando-looking thing Chris had given him a few years back, all black canvas and zippers. With the ten bucks he found stuffed into one of the smaller pockets, he paid a taxi to take him to Norfolk. He held his breath as Sandy, whose badge proudly proclaimed that this was her third year at American Airlines, ran his Discover card for the eight-thousand dollar flight. When she smiled and handed him his card and a copy to sign, he scrawled his name out and jogged away from the counter before she realized a mistake had been made. With the same card, he walked into the Ruby Tuesdays and ordered two Southern Comfort highballs. He swallowed one and handed the glass back to the surprised bartender.

  In an effort to explain what must not be normal behavior, he widened his eyes, shook his head and said, “first time flying.”

  It certainly wasn’t his first time flying, but it was his first time flying into Cairo to single-handedly take on some of the world’s most dangerous people.

  The bartender’s shock eased and she nodded. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine once you get in the air.”

  She walked away with the kind of smile one might give to a child who doesn’t understand the rules to a board game. Ned sipped the second drink as he waited for his flight.

  He woke up as the wheels of the plane were touching down in Cairo. On the tray in front of him were the empty scattered remains of mini liquor bottles. Ned groaned at the pain in his neck while studying the pile and growled, “the bones tell everything.”

  The woman next to him nodded and smiled. “I’ve always enjoyed the journey of Queequeg. Such a bold statement of racial equality. It’s interesting that his own coffin becomes a lifeboat as such.”

  Ned opened his mouth to say he had no idea what she was talking about, but a hot uprising of bile in his throat forced him to clamp his jaws shut. He forced a smile and shrugged. The woman seemed happy enough with his response and turned away. He had to concentrate hard on settling his stomach as beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. Digging into the pocket in the rear of the seat in front of him revealed that the ubiquitous barf bag was missing. Getting to the bathroom was not an option, as the lemmings were gathering their suitcases and other overstuffed belongings from the overhead compartments. It would be at least another twenty minutes before the aisle would clear.

  He motioned for the woman to get out before him and sat back in his seat. Apparently, his body decided it was time for another nap, because the next thing he knew, a flight attendant was shaking him awake.

  “Sir, it’s all clear. You can go now.” Another condescending grin from a stranger.

  “Right,” Ned got up, grabbed his bag and waddled off the plane. Though he was still sweating, he did feel a little better.

  “Thank you, buh bye,” another attendant said to him as he passed through the airplane door.

  “You too,” Ned said reflexively, but didn’t have the time, nor the care to correct his mistake.

  He jogged up the ramp toward the terminal and found the nearest restroom. He emptied his stomach into a broken toilet and hurried out before he could be discovered as the offending vomiter.

  Outside the airport, Ned pulled his baseball cap down low. He had no idea if anyone would be tailing him, and he thought it more likely the enemy would target Chris than assume Ned himself would dare to take them on face-to face. But he certainly didn’t like the idea of being conspicuous.

  He found a row of taxis and chose the first one in line—a rusty, black and white Hyundai. The driver apologized in broken English that his meter was broken and opened the door, ushering Ned inside. If it hadn’t been for the liquor daze, Ned might’ve realized that he was about to be ridiculously overcharged—a normal occurrence for taxis picking up obvious tourists.

  Ned simply flopped in and told the guy he was headed to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. His driver, a tiny man who could’ve easily passed as a racehorse jockey, told him his name was Sam. Ned didn’t care that this was probably not the man’s real name. He just shook his head. “How far to the museum?”

  “Is hard to say,” the man said, clicking the dial on the ancient FM radio, “maybe two hours in
traffic?”

  “Good,” Ned said and leaned back on his headrest. “I’m just going to catch a few winks.”

  “Very good, sir,” the man said as Ned fell into his second nap in as many hours. Fumes and noise from the city’s jam-packed and lawless traffic were already seeping through the windows, but Ned didn’t notice any of it.

  16 Outnumbered

  Chris was on the edge of a 15,000 foot drop, seconds from death. He could see no way out of the situation, and his only thought was to take one of his killers down with him. There was a scream. A scream shriller than Chris had ever heard, piercing through all the noise of the wind and the engines. A long, continuous scream. It commanded attention.

  The two assailants were looking at Tsu in amazement. Her eyes were still closed, but she was shrieking like she was being attacked by wild dogs. Chris did not look at her.

  Instead, he swiftly dug his elbow into the flabby guts of the man standing behind him holding the knife. He gasped and doubled up in pain, dropping the knife as he clutched his stomach. The big man was turning back to look at Chris, but not quickly enough to notice the uppercut that was about to break his jaw. Not that a broken jaw was by any means his biggest concern. The blow lifted him off his feet and thrust him backwards. Far enough that it was now no longer in contact with the plane. His huge body had been launched into the sky and his arms were outstretched in desperation. He began his long, slow drop towards death.

  Chris turned and tried to throw White-Suit in the same direction. But the man had regained his composure and was not willing to go so easily. The men were now in a grapple. It came down to pure physical strength and they were equally matched. The man tried to get his leg across Chris’s and tip him over it, out of the plane. Chris remained stiff and planted his heels. He raised his thumb towards the man’s eye and jabbed at it. He felt the jelly of the eyeball under the tip of his thumb. In his desperation to remove the appendage from his eye, White-Suit dragged Chris’s arm in the direction of the cabin. Both men tumbled into the aisle. White-Suit was on top.