Mega

by Jake Bible

  There was a lot of activity back in port when the pirate mother ship docked, and Tarabi pushed the phone from his mind as he helped unload the hostages and drove them to the gang’s compound on the far side of Hilweyne. They were locked up and hooded so Daacad could make a quick video demanding ransom, or the container ship’s crew would be executed.

  Once the hostages were secured, and Daacad was gone to tell his wives of the loss of his son, Tarabi took his chance and slipped from the compound. He walked to his destination instead of driving, not wanting one of the gang’s vehicles to be spotted and recognized. When he reached his intended destination, a small, rundown hut, he knocked softly on the rickety door. A couple minutes went by and then a small child opened up.

  “Tell your father that Tarabi is here,” Tarabi said. The child just stared. “Now! Go!”

  The child scurried away and was replaced by an angry looking man.

  “Tarabi, what is this? Why do you scare my son?” a tall, thin man asked, his black skin marred by pock marks and scars. “And why are you here so late?”

  “I have this,” Tarabi said, pulling out the iPhone, his smile like a child’s at Christmas. “I found it today.”

  “Give me that!” the man snapped, yanking the iPhone from Tarabi’s grip. He started flipping through the settings and checking the apps. “You fool, this can be traced! You are lucky I know how to turn that off.”

  “Oh,” Tarabi said, his face flushed with embarrassment, “I did not know.”

  “Leave it with me a couple of days and I’ll make sure it is safe to give back,” the man said. “It’ll be like new.” He caught site of the blood that Tarabi never wiped off, but didn’t say anything. He knew whom he was dealing with.

  “A couple days? That long?” Tarabi said, disappointed.

  “Yes, I am a busy man,” the man said, waving Tarabi off. “I will send one of my children to fetch you when it is ready. Now go away, you have disrupted my evening.”

  Tarabi thought about showing the man how disruptive he could make the evening, but stopped himself. He really wanted that iPhone. He couldn’t wait to see the looks on the other men’s faces when he pulled it out for the first time. He’d make sure it was spotless then.

  “Fine,” Tarabi said reluctantly, “two days. If I do not hear from you by then, I will come back, and I won’t knock.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” the man said, “goodnight, Tarabi.”

  The door shut and Tarabi stalked off, his shoulders hunched with slight defeat.

  The man inside waited until he was sure Tarabi was gone, and then turned and hurried over to a work bench on the far wall of the hut. His wife and children watched him as he undraped the bench to reveal a bank of computer monitors in various states of repair and disrepair. He pulled a box out from under the bench and searched until he found the right cord, plugging it into a desktop tower.

  “Finish eating,” the man commanded his family, and they all turned back to their almost forgotten meal, sneaking glances here and there, as the man worked.

  He brought up a program similar to iTunes. After a couple of minutes, he’d stripped off and copied everything from the iPhone. He then set it to reset and put it aside as he looked at the files he’d obtained. He shook his head as he scanned through the pictures of a white man and his family, the ship he had worked on, and other various aspects of his life. He was about to delete the files, then saw one was not a still, but a video.

  The video came to life and he had to turn the volume down on his computer as Abshir’s voice echoed about the hut. He didn’t even notice his family crowding around him as he watched the video again and again, stunned at what he saw.

  Chapter Two: A Proposal

  The man watched the video, his eyes glued to the tablet he held in his hands. He was oblivious to the sounds of the bar around him, despite the fact it was a busy Friday night and the bar was jammed with patrons. The video ended and he looked at the screen, then up at the man that sat across the table from him, back down to the tablet, and then up to the man. He set the tablet aside and took a long drink from the glass in hand.

  “That’s something to see,” the man said with a cultured South African accent. The rest of the accents around him were less than cultured. He flinched as a large woman stumbled by, her beer sloshing from her mug. He had never been much for socializing with the seedier element of his countrymen and countrywomen. Adjusting his tie, he cleared his throat, smoothed the front of his suit jacket and started again. “What I mean to say, is that it’s an impressive video. Truly.”

  “Impressive?” the man across the table laughed. Late twenties, dirty blond hair, bright blue eyes, the man looked like a retired Abercrombie & Fitch model, but in much, much better shape. The black t-shirt he wore accentuated the already defined muscles in his arms and chest. He leaned forward, those bright blue eyes turning to ice. “Impressive? That’s all you have to say? It’s fucking incredible!”

  The muscled man reached out and tapped the tablet. His finger emphasizing each word he said.

  “That is the find of the last two centuries, Mr- uh, what was it again?”

  “Konig,” the man replied, “must I remind you each time, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Call me Darren, please,” Darren Chambers smiled. “My apologies. I am shit for names. Always have been. I can learn a new language in 48 hours, but can’t remember the guy’s name that holds my future in his hands. Messed up, am I right?”

  Darren laughed. Mr. Konig didn’t.

  “Anyway, you saw what is on that video,” Darren said. “That is what I have been searching for. All these years of research have led me to this point, a single YouTube video uploaded by some anonymous African teenager. At least that’s my guess. I gave up a career as a US Navy SEAL to pursue this. I can’t have it all fall apart because Stanvelt Banc of Cape Town is annoyed that I’m a little late on my payments.”

  “Six months in arrears, Mr. Chambers,” Mr. Konig said, “that is not little. Nor is your loan. You are compounding late fees and penalty interest every day. Do you know how much that is, just for this week?”

  “Do I want to?” Darren laughed. Again, Mr. Konig did not.

  “186,000 rand, Mr. Chambers,” Mr. Konig said. Darren had just taken a sip of his whiskey and spit half of it onto the table. “That would be about 18,000 US dollars. Per week, Mr. Chambers. You are currently in debt for nearly 800,000.”

  “Rand?” Darren asked hopefully.

  “US dollars,” Mr. Konig replied.

  “Yikes,” Darren smiled, wiping at the whiskey that was sprayed on his phone. Just as he set it back on the table, it rang. Again. His Chief Officer had been trying to call him for twenty minutes. He let it go to voicemail, adding to the thirteen others. Unlucky number that.

  “But with this discovery, I will be able to pay that loan off in just a couple of months,” Darren insisted. “Book deals, speaking tours, exclusives, National Geographic special, at the very least. All I need is just another extension…and an additional fifty grand. That’s all.”

  That did make Mr. Konig laugh. It was a shrill sound and several of the bar’s patrons turned to make sure he wasn’t having a fit. His face went red with the unwanted attention and he cleared his throat, adjusted his tie (which did not need adjusting), and smoothed his suit once more.

  “Mr. Chambers---”

  “Darren,” Darren smiled. It was a charming smile and one Darren had relied on most of his life. “I think we’re on a first name basis, don’t you?”

  “You can’t even remember my last name, Mr. Chambers,” Mr. Konig said, the chill in his voice answer enough. “What I was going to say is that there will be no need for an extension.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and smiled at what he saw. “As of five minutes ago, your loan account was closed. You no longer owe us anything.”

  “What…? Wait, what the hell are you talking about?” Darren asked as Mr. Konig stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “Closed? How?
”

  “It was paid off by an investor,” Mr. Konig said, looking about the bar, trying to find the best way through the crowd to make his exit. No routes were appealing as they all involved having to squeeze past several large groups of drunken Saffers (a term Mr. Konig found derogatory, even if many of his fellow South Africans did not).

  “Investor? What the hell does that mean? That’s my ship! My ship! You have no right to-!”

  “Let me stop you there, Mr. Chambers,” Mr. Konig said, “I did nothing. The Stanvelt Banc of Cape Town has been sending you notices for weeks that your boat would be sold at auction at precisely seven in the evening on this date. You did not respond to any of the notices.”

  “Notices? Auction?” Darren said. “I thought that was just bank threats. You know, empty and just there to pressure me.”

  “Banks do not make empty threats, Mr. Chambers,” Mr. Konig replied. “They do not need to.”

  “Then what the hell was this all about?” Darren asked, standing and spreading his arms over the table, and then pointing at the tablet. “Why’d you ask to meet if you had no intention of extending my loan? And why’d you ask to see the video over and over…ah, shit.”

  “We drew straws,” Mr. Konig said. “Crude, I know, but none of us wanted to be the one to distract you while the auction was happening. Your reputation does precede you. I am happy that the temper you are known for did not surface this evening. I have a date with a young woman in real estate and would hate to arrive late and in a sorry state.”

  “Distract me…,” Darren said to himself, his face flushed, a vein at his temple pulsed. He glanced at his phone and the notification that the number had grown to fifteen messages. His CO hadn’t stopped trying to reach him.

  “Right, yes, well,” Mr. Konig said, extending his hand, “I am sorry for the circumstances, but I did enjoy the video. I hope you catch your mystery whale, Mr. Chambers. Others in the office have laughed, but I have always believed it to be an adventurous way to pass one’s time. When I retire one day, I hope to take to the sea, too.”

  The man waited for Darren to shake his hand then let it drop when it was obvious it wouldn’t happen. He nodded to Darren and started to walk away.

  “Hey, Konig,” Darren called out. “You liked the video? Here. Take it, asshole!”

  Mr. Konig turned and his eyes grew wide. The tablet hit him square in the forehead and he stumbled backwards, his hand reaching back for support, but finding a mug of beer instead. The glass tumbled to the ground and shattered, spraying the former owner of the beverage from toe to chest. Mr. Konig was able to steady himself, but his legs went weak as the splattered man stood up, dwarfing Konig by almost a foot.

  “Oh,” Mr. Konig said before a large fist hit him in the nose. His blood quickly joined the mess of glass and beer on the wood planked barroom floor.

  “You owe me a beer,” the man said, as he grabbed Konig by his suit and lifted him into the air. “Now.”

  “Right, right,” Mr. Konig said, his voice choked and slurred from his ruptured nose, “a pitcher even.”

  “Hey,” Darren said as he grabbed the man’s arm. “That’s my banker. I’d appreciate it if you put him down.”

  “I could give two foks what you care for, Yank,” the man sneered. “Go back to your table and let a couple Saffers work this out.”

  “You know what?” Darren asked, looking as if he’d comply with the man’s request. “I’ve lived in South Africa for years now, off and on, and I still don’t get why you like being called Saffers. Sure, I get it’s short for South African, but it sounds too close to Kaffer for my taste.”

  “I agree,” Mr. Konig said, his feet dangling above the floor as blood continued to drip from his nose and off his chin. “Never liked it myself.”

  “You gonna put him down?” Darren asked as he turned towards his table. “Or do I have to ask you the hard way?”

  “The hard way?” the man asked. “Don’t know that way, Yank.”

  “Here,” Darren smiled as he lifted a chair and swung it around, “let me show you.”

  The chair exploded against the man’s shoulder and he lost his grip on Konig. The banker tumbled to the ground and quickly crawled under the table he had shared with Darren just moments before. He watched as the man turned to Darren and smiled.

  “That is your hard way?” the man laughed, pulling back a fist. “You Yanks need to learn a better way.”

  “Chambers! No!” the bartender shouted and all eyes turned to the altercation just as the man threw the punch at Darren. “NOT AGAIN!”

  The man’s eyes went wide as his fist hit air. Darren wasn’t there anymore. He hadn’t even seen him move. Then his eyes went wider as his side exploded in pain. Then his back. Then his other side. Suddenly Darren was in front of him again. Smiling.

  “You’ll be pissing blood for a week,” Darren said, “just a heads up.”

  The uppercut that hit the stunned man sent him flying off his feet and nearly out of his shoes. He slammed into the table behind him, obliterating it. People screamed, yelled, shouted, and rushed at Darren, but he just stood there looking at the man lying in the ruins of the table.

  “The hard way,” Darren said just as he was tackled by three of the man’s friends.

  Konig covered his head and watched in horror as the entire bar broke out into violent chaos. Darren had gone down under three bodies that almost matched his first assailant, but he wasn’t there anymore. The men were landing punches on each other and the floor for a couple seconds before they realized their quarry had slipped their grasp.

  Darren made sure to let them know exactly where he was, as he grabbed the top one and pulled him up off the floor. His knee met the man’s groin and all that escaped the man’s lips was a high pitched squeal and hiss. Darren patted him on the cheek and let him fall back to the ground. The other two pushed up and came at Darren, but he swatted their punches away like flies, sending both men stumbling past him, completely off balance.

  A quick kick to each backside sent the men flying across other tables, destroying more furniture and adding to the insanity.

  “Gonna stay under there all night?” Darren asked as he bent down and looked at Mr. Konig.

  “Behind you!” Mr. Konig shouted.

  “Yes, that’s probably a good place to be as I clear us a path,” Darren said, extending his hand. Mr. Konig didn’t take it. “Fine. Be that way.”

  Darren took two fists to the back of the neck and went down hard on his knees. He shook his head and grimaced at the pain it produced.

  “Your hard way is for moffies,” the man jeered, “my girl hits harder.”

  “Oh,” Darren said as he dodged the next throw, “where’s she at? She should be with a real man, not kak like you.”

  Grabbing the man’s arms over his shoulder, Darren rocketed to his feet, bending them in ways arms weren’t meant to be bent. The man screamed as Darren snapped his arms, spun the man about, grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face into his knee. Darren smiled at the sound of crunching bone. He let the man collapse to the ground and resisted one last kick in the gut. Just wasn’t fair.

  “Staying?” Darren asked Mr. Konig. “Fuck if I care.”

  “Dammit, Chambers!” the bartender shouted at him as Darren ducked and dodged his way to the front door. “You’re paying for this!”

  “Bill that guy,” Darren yelled, giving a last wave as he dashed out the door and away from the brawl that was just getting worse. “He started it.”

  Darren burst onto the sidewalk and did a quick assessment. Sirens coming fast, curious people heading towards the bar and the commotion inside, traffic slow and sporadic, a taxi up the street on the corner.

  “HEY!” Darren bellowed as he sprinted towards the taxi. “TAXI!”

  The car slowed and Darren dove into the backseat, staying down across the torn upholstery.

  “You part of that, hey?” the cab driver asked, his voice a thick Afrikaans that
took Darren a split second to adjust to. “Don’t need no dronkie in my cab. Get yourself a new one.”

  “Ain’t drunk, pal,” Darren said. “Didn’t have time to finish my drink before that started.”

  “Shame,” the cab driver said, “hate to waste a drop. Where ya headed, bra?”

  “Table Bay,” Darren said, finally sitting up as the cab pulled away, “the port.”

  “That’s extra,” the driver said, “not my route, bra.”

  “I’ll pay it,” Darren replied, hoping he actually had enough. “Just get me there fast.”

  Darren leaned back into the seat as the cab sped through the streets of Cape Town, South Africa towards the Port of Cape Town.

  “You want me to pull to the V & A?” the cab driver asked.

  “Duncan,” Darren said, “my ship’s there.”

  Or it was, Darren thought. Was his.

  “Fuck,” Darren muttered.

  “What’s that?” the cab driver asked.

  Darren waved him off and turned to look out the window. His ship, the Research Vessel Hooyah, was his life. He’d left the Navy Seals four years earlier under not the best of circumstances. It was an amicable split, and reflected so in his file, but he’d burned a few bridges in the community when he left. He was considered a candidate for Team Six and it ticked more than a few of his buddies off that he’d walk away from that kind of honor to chase a whale.

  But it wasn’t just any whale. No, Darren had seen his Moby Dick. Coming back from a mission off the coast of Somalia, Darren had found himself in the water with something that scared the ever loving fuck out of him. Which, being a hardened SEAL, was not an easy task. He’d been only about half a click from the Zodiac that was waiting to extract him and his Team when something bumped him from below. Not one ever to panic for anything, Darren had casually looked down to assess things. He nearly lost his rebreather as he stared straight into the largest eye he’d ever seen. It had been the only time his training had failed him and he’d reacted to his surroundings with anything but cold, calculating analysis.