by Tom Kratman
He stopped at the corner of a shed, watching as the burly skipper of a big, blue-painted fishing boat argued prices with a buyer. Their gesticulations and loud, histrionic discussion eventually subsided, and they shook hands as the bargain was concluded. The buyer gestured to his clerk, who dug out a form and began writing on it as a quayside crane hoisted the big fish boxes out of the hold and stacked them at the entrance to the shed. Teams of women wearing heavy rubber boots, long waterproof coats and protective gloves emptied them onto the sorting tables, cleaning the fish before tossing them onto conveyor belts that whisked them into the freezer plant. Gulls circled eagerly overhead, screeching their anticipation of the fish guts that would soon be their breakfast. The most daring among them hovered just above the sorting tables, pecking at the offal as the women swept it into the water-flushed gutters that would carry it into waste tanks, and thence into the harbor, where seals and other scavengers waited their turn.
The skipper accepted the form from the buyer’s clerk, scanned it swiftly, and nodded his satisfaction as he folded it and slipped it into his pocket. He half-turned away, then caught sight of the priest waiting at the corner of the shed. He stared at him for a moment, then nodded, very deliberately, and held up one finger. Father Francisco nodded in reply, then turned on his heel and headed for the café at the head of the dock. He walked through the rapidly filling dining area to the counter, ordered a coffee, then sat down at an empty table at the rear of the room.
The boat’s captain came in about twenty minutes later. His basso profundo voice rumbled as he ordered coffee and a mammoth fisherman’s breakfast, then sat down at the same table.
“You are well, Father?”
“I am, Ramon. The fishing was good?”
“It was very good—one of the best nights of the season so far, thanks be to God and Saint Peter.” The big man grinned as he sipped his steaming coffee. “That makes me laugh. You answer to the See of Peter, and we sail the sea of Peter, patron saint of fishermen.”
The priest couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Yes, but at least my see won’t drown me if I make a mistake. Yours will!”
“I suppose that’s why we both need Saint Peter’s intercession, eh, Father?” The man looked around casually, to make sure he was not being watched, then drew a small envelope from an inside pocket of his dungarees. “Abdullah made rendezvous, Father. Here is his message. He also gave me some more information for you—new things, very bad things.”
“Oh?”
A heavy sigh. “He says that yesterday morning, ten members of the Ikhwan arrived at Alsamak. They brought with them weapons, and are going to teach the villagers how to use them. They say anyone who doesn’t report for training is a traitor to Allah and unfit for jihad. They’ll be treated as infidels and apostates, to set an example to the rest. They’ve already killed three men who protested, including the Imam. They say it’s the duty of all true believers to drive out the ‘crusaders,’ as they call us. They’ve claimed this island for Allah.”
“The whole of Pescara, not just their village?”
“That’s what Abdullah said.”
“What is he going to do?”
“He said he can’t abandon his family to the Brotherhood. He asks your forgiveness for what will probably happen now. He says he won’t be able to make rendezvous again.”
The priest’s face twisted in sympathy. “God help him, then. Abdullah’s a good man, but he’s no match for fanatics. The Ikhwan have been spreading their poisonous tentacles throughout his people for years. Now they’re in his village. He’ll have no choice but to fall into line with them, or die.”
“But . . . what can we do, Father? We have no way to resist armed fanatics! Even if we had enough money to buy guns, no one would sell them to us. We’re just a poor village of itinerant fishermen at one end of a rocky, worthless island. We’re not important to anybody. We can’t ask the UEPF for help, even though we sell much of our catch to them on Atlantis, because they won’t get involved in local disputes. They even search our transport, coming and going, to make sure we aren’t smuggling contraband.”
A harried waitress slammed down a huge, heavily laden plate in front of the fisherman. “Eat it while it’s hot!” she admonished as she hurried away, avoiding the seaman’s attempted pinch with a practiced twist of her ample posterior and a playful swat of her hand.
The priest thought, while his companion took a big mouthful of food and chewed mightily. “Did Abdullah say where the Brotherhood were staying in Alsamak?” he asked.
The skipper swallowed. “He said they’d commandeered one of the processing sheds in the harbor to store their extra gear. After they killed the Imam, they took over his house next to the mosque for themselves. One of them will do the preaching from now on.”
“That gives me an idea. Go home, get some sleep, then pass the word to Dimas and Guillermo. I want the three of you to meet with me at the rectory after Mass this evening. Don’t be late, and don’t mention this to anyone else, get it?”
“Is this about the Brotherhood?”
Father Francisco shook his head. “Don’t ask me questions yet. I’ll tell you more tonight.”
The fisherman nodded slowly. “Very well, Father. We’ll be there.”
Rain was falling softly as the congregation assembled for Mass that evening. There were more worshippers than usual. Despite the priest’s injunction, word had spread of the clandestine encounter the night before. The arrival of Ikhwan fanatics on the island had set everyone’s teeth on edge. There were many tales of what had happened to other communities they’d targeted . . . none of them good.
After the service, Father Francisco took off his vestments, then opened the door of his small rectory next to the chapel to let in his visitors. The fishermen were surprised to find three more people waiting inside.
“I think you all know Zacharias, Nicolau and Esteban,” he began as they sat down. “They served in the army, as I did. I rose to troop sergeant. Esteban was a sergeant, Zacharias was a corporal, and Nicolau a lance-corporal.”
“I didn’t know you were a soldier, Padre,” Guillermo said, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
Francisco shrugged. “It was a long time ago, but we all remember our training. If we’re going to face Brotherhood fanatics, the four of us will have to teach the rest of you how to defend yourselves.”
“With what?” Dimas demanded. “We have no guns!”
“Not yet.”
A sudden silence fell around the table as they looked at him. At last, Ramon said cautiously, “Father, you’re a priest now, not a soldier. Priests aren’t supposed to be men of violence.”
“In normal times, you’d be right, my son; but these aren’t normal times. Besides, violence isn’t always ungodly. Didn’t our Lord say to his apostles, ‘When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own palace, his goods are in peace’; and again, just before His crucifixion, ‘He who has no sword, let him sell his cloak, and buy one’? That was to his apostles, mind you: the future founding bishops of the Church. If it was in order for them to be armed, it must also have been in order for them to use their weapons. The one implies the other.”
“I . . . I suppose so. What is it you have in mind, Father?”
Three nights later, two of Pescara’s larger fishing boats put out to sea after full dark had fallen, to prevent prying eyes from seeing what they were about. At the northern tip of the island, three hours later, farewells were shouted across the gap between them. Guillermo turned his boat to the west. Her holds were filled with barrels of extra fuel, and her crew quarters stuffed with food and other supplies for an extended voyage.
“Do you think the authorities in Castilla will listen to him, or the bishop to your message?” Ramon asked softly as they watched his vessel fade into the night.
Father Francisco heaved a sigh. “I truly don’t know. That’s why I gave him the second message, to a friend in Balboa. If the authorities won’t listen, he will.”
&
nbsp; “Let’s hope someone will help, not just listen!”
“From your lips to God’s ears, my son. How long to Alsamak harbor?”
“About two hours, Father.”
The priest took his pipe and tobacco-pouch from a pocket, tamped down a bowlful of tobacco, lit it, and puffed contentedly as he thought about what was to happen tonight. With luck, nothing would go wrong . . . but he’d learned the hard way, and far too often, that military operations seldom went according to plan. At least he and the other three wouldn’t be coming at this cold. They would need every bit of their prior training and experience if they were to succeed tonight.
He ran his eyes over the rugged terrain of the island as they chugged along, a few hundred yards offshore. It was almost barren, growing nothing but scrubby, tangled thorn bushes between its rocks, and had no other resources, which is why no major nation had ever bothered to claim it. It rose steeply from the coast to a jagged, uneven ridgeline, forming a spine running the length of the island. Pescara was at the southern end, Alsamak at the northern. Both had been founded to serve fishermen during the summer, and were almost deserted at other times.
As they drew nearer to Alsamak, Esteban joined him in the stern. “Ready, Padre?” he asked softly, taking a sharp bayonet from its sheath at his belt and testing its edge against his thumb.
“I am. Be careful with that thing. Remember, we want no casualties tonight if at all possible, on their side or ours.”
“I hear you, but the enemy gets a say, too.”
“Too true!”
“Did you bring your little souvenir along?”
Francisco patted the left chest of his bulky jacket. “It’s in my shoulder holster now.”
“What made you bring a pistol with you to a fishing village?”
“I suppose it’s the same thing that made you bring that bayonet. I’d have felt lost without it.”
“You know the planetary authorities have declared guns contraband out here, so close to their observation post at Jebel Musa?”
“What gun? You said it yourself. It’s just a souvenir of past times and good company.”
“Sometimes not so good, as I recall, but who am I to argue with a priest?” They laughed softly together as he handed over a heavy, tubular object. “Here. Wet sand in a sock. It makes a handy cosh. We all have one.”
“If we need any weapon at all tonight, let’s try to use these rather than something more lethal.”
“If you say so, Padre, but those Ikhwan bastards won’t be so kind-hearted if they see us coming.”
“If they see us coming, we’re beaten before we start. Pray they’re fast asleep.”
“They should be by the time we get there, unless they’ve left a sentry at the harbor.”
“We would, if we were in their shoes. Don’t assume that just because they’re extremists, they’re also stupid.”
Ramon throttled back the engine when they were a mile out, and they coasted slowly towards the small fishing harbor. The skipper and Father Francisco scanned the port carefully through night glasses as they approached, the big binoculars gathering every scrap of moonlight and concentrating it in the optics. No movement was visible, and only two boats swung at the buoy line.
“The rest are out on the fishing grounds,” Ramon murmured, “taking advantage of the full moon. It’ll bring the fish to the surface.”
“When do they return?”
“The last moon sets at zero-four-thirty or thereabouts, so they’ll start back soon after that. They should begin trickling in at about zero-seven-thirty. We’ll be long gone by then. I’ll go back round the other side of the island, so they don’t notice us.”
“Very well. I’m worried that the Brotherhood may have left a sentry to guard their gear. Esteban and I will row ashore in your dinghy, and make sure there’s no one to sound the alarm. Wait offshore until we signal you to come in, then make as little noise as possible.”
“Do you know how to row?” the skipper asked, surprised.
“We both trained with paddles and inflatable boats, once upon a time. We’ll each take an oar, and paddle your dinghy the same way.”
The fisherman shook his head. “Sounds daft to me, but I’ve never rowed like that. Good luck to you.”
They hauled in the dinghy, towed astern of the fishing boat, and climbed over the side, settling themselves on the thwarts and picking up the short oars, holding them like paddles. The boat towed them to within half a mile of the harbor entrance, then released them to cover the rest of the distance under their own steam. They began plying their paddles, moving slowly and carefully so as to avoid splashing and making a noise.
By the time they were halfway to the entrance, both men were breathing heavily. “Damn, I’d forgotten how much hard work this is!” Esteban whispered.
“I hadn’t realized how out of shape I’ve become,” Father Francisco admitted sotto voce. “Our assault training instructors would fail both of us on the spot, if they could see us now.”
Chuckling softly, they plied their paddles with renewed vigor.
As they drew near the entrance, the priest whispered, “Let’s land on that patch of sand outside the breakwater and walk up round the back of the processing sheds. That way, if anyone’s patrolling, they won’t see us enter the harbor.”
They pulled the dinghy up onto the sand, stowed the oars carefully, then took a moment to recover their breath before walking up the rocky slope to the edge of the breakwater where it joined the land. They looked around carefully, but saw no one. However, the biggest and most distant of the processing sheds showed a light inside, visible through a small side window.
“That must be it, Padre.”
“Don’t speak too soon. There are five sheds. Let’s check each one in turn, very carefully.”
Slowly, moving with agonizing care so as not to make any sound, they checked the nearer sheds. All were empty. By the time they came to the largest shed, the clock had ticked past zero-one-hundred.
“We’ve not got much time,” the priest whispered. “We’ve got to be out of sight of the port before their fishing boats come back.”
“Do you see any movement?”
“Not through the side window. We’ll have to go in. Let’s use the back door.”
They crept around the shed to a rough-hewn wood door, looking as if it had been knocked together from the planks of derelict fishing boats. Esteban grasped the handle and turned it carefully, then pulled the door open. They both winced as the hinges squeaked and squealed an urgent protest at being disturbed.
A voice came from inside. Both men could understand the gist of it, having studied Arabic during their military service, it being the language of their most likely opponents. “Is that you, Akbar? Couldn’t you sleep, or something? You’re only supposed to relieve me at four.”
The priest thought fast, and mumbled aloud, “Yes, it’s me,” as he stepped inside, trying to disguise his voice as he drew the pistol from its concealed holster. Behind him, Esteban slipped through the door and to one side, moving behind the cover of a row of crates.
“What are you chewing?” the other demanded, drawing nearer. His footsteps sounded from beyond the crates. “Did you bring some for me?”
The priest lined his pistol as a man appeared around the crates. He was young, his long black hair and unruly beard making his face look shaggy and unkempt. An automatic rifle was slung across his chest. His eyes widened for a brief, incredulous instant, then he drew in a sharp breath as his hands snatched at his weapon—only to slump as Esteban stepped out behind him and swung his cosh viciously against the back of his head. Francisco jumped to catch him before he could hit the ground, lowering his body silently so that his rifle didn’t clatter on the concrete floor.
“Nicely done, compañero!” he praised.
“De nada. He was careless. He should have been more alert.”
“I’m glad he wasn’t. Watch him. I’m going to make sure there are no others.”
He hurried back to Esteban. “The weapons are there. We must hurry if we’re to load them and get away before his relief gets here. I’ll signal the boat.”
Esteban nodded as he took the sentry’s rifle and slung it over his shoulder. “What should we do with this cabron?”
“We daren’t leave him here to tell the others what happened. He has to disappear, to add to their confusion. We’ll take him with us.”
“Where are we going to keep him? We have no cells.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Drag him over to the crates.”
The priest hurried out of the loading dock, looking seaward to the faint bulk of the fishing boat, half a mile offshore, but visible in the moonlight. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, he aimed it at the boat and pressed the button three times. He sighed with relief as a single flash came back. The boat’s bow swung towards the harbor as it began its approach.
Francisco spun around as the noise of a scuffle came from within the packing shed. He ran back inside, to find Esteban standing over the sentry, puffing and panting. His left hand was locked tightly around the man’s neck, and his right held a bloody bayonet.
“What happened?”
“This bastard tried to jump me. Luckily, I got my fingers around his windpipe, to stop him shouting. I was able to get my bayonet out while he struggled to pull my hand off his neck. It was him or me, Padre.” As he spoke, the figure at his feet gave a final shudder, and went limp.