The Lazarus Moment

by J. Robert Kennedy

  The good ones are always taken.

  O. R. Tambo International Airport, Gauteng, South Africa

  Igor Khomenko stared at himself in the bathroom mirror and nodded with satisfaction. He looked completely different. He just wished he had hair to restyle, but his chemo had put an end to that. Instead, he sported a New York Fire Department ball cap, the brim curved nicely, the dark blue fading after putting it through a lot of abuse over the past several weeks. Non-prescription glasses with thick rims distracted from his eyes, gray contact lenses hid his distinctive green, and a thick, fake mustache completed his ensemble.

  Along with the FSB provided United States of America passport.

  Plan B was in full effect.

  With one final look in the mirror, he extended the handle on his carry-on and rolled it out of the bathroom and into the terminal, hundreds of people hurrying to and from flights. Security was heavy, heavier than when he had arrived, and every television set in sight was tuned to coverage of the Air Force One crash, which suited him fine.

  Heads tilted up at a screen would take no notice of him.

  Using one of the automated terminals, he checked himself in, selecting no luggage, allowing him to bypass the check-in counter and head straight for security. If he could make it through there, he would probably be home free, though there was still the risk they might shut the airport down, though at this point he was certain the authorities had no reason to believe he would be foolhardy enough to go to the one place with more security than the government buildings.

  They’ll never look for you in the belly of the beast.

  The key was confidence.

  One of the advantages of knowing you were going to die, regardless of what you did, was that you didn’t care if you were caught. He wasn’t fleeing the authorities because he wanted to remain a free man, he was heading for home because he wanted to die in Donetsk, to be buried beside his wife and child, to rest for eternity gazing out upon the land he had fought so hard for, and lost so much to, for the rest of eternity.

  The lineup was long but moving well. A group of heavily armed police entered the area, spreading out, eyeballing the crowd.

  People alone attract attention.

  He glanced at the person behind him and noticed he was holding an American passport. “What do you think that’s all about?” he asked the man, motioning toward the additional security with a tilt of his head.

  The American shook his head. “I don’t know, might be related to the President.”

  Khomenko frowned. “I still can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “Oh he’s not dead!”

  Khomenko felt almost every muscle in his body contract. “What do you mean he’s not dead?”

  The man held up his cellphone, a website too small for Khomenko to read flipping from portrait to landscape then back. “They just reported on CNN that over half the people survived, including the entire First Family. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Khomenko’s jaw clamped shut, hard.

  “You okay?”

  He nodded, finally taking a breath. “Yes, I’m just shocked. Relieved, of course.” He shuffled forward. “I guess I had just resigned myself to the fact they were all dead. To find out this, well, it’s like a miracle.”

  “Yeah, it’s quite the Lazarus Moment, isn’t it? They swore in a new president and everything.” The man paused for a moment. “I wonder how that works.”

  Khomenko grunted, his eyes casually scanning the security personnel, he now making a point of standing beside his new companion, making it look like they had been together the entire time. He realized the man was waiting for a response. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t think that was on the citizenship exam.”

  The man glanced down at Khomenko’s passport, clutched in his hand with his boarding pass. “How long have you been a citizen?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “That’s great. Where you from originally? Your accent sounds East European. Russian?”

  “Very good. You’ve got a good ear.”

  “Just a lucky guess. Your English is very good but I guess you never really lose the accent when you’re our age.”

  Khomenko smiled slightly. “No, I guess you don’t.”

  “I guess you’re happy to be out of there, what with everything going on.”

  Khomenko felt his chest tighten, his cheeks flushing involuntarily as he prepared himself for another ignorant American’s opinion of Mother Russia. “Such as?”

  “Well, what that guy’s doing in Moscow, trying to bring back the Soviet Union and everything.”

  “Russia was never stronger than when it was part of the Soviet Union. A lot of people long for those days.”

  The man frowned. “It’s been twenty five years since the Soviet Union collapsed and probably another five before they were a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who longs for the old days is either too young to remember how bad it actually was, or too old to accept how much better things are now. To want to go back to that insanity, is, well, insane.” The man nodded toward the screener. “You’re up. Nice talking to you.”

  Khomenko nodded, trying to control his rage. “Have a good flight.” He handed his passport and boarding pass over then lifted his bag onto the scanner. He emptied his pockets, placing everything into a gray tray then stepped through the scanner cleanly. Filling his pockets, he grabbed his bag and returned a wave from the American, then made a beeline for the nearest bathroom.

  Thirty minutes until boarding.

  Then he could breathe easier.

  He just hoped he didn’t run into the ignorant American.

  He might just have to kill him.

  His rage over the idiocy spouted by the uninformed fool wasn’t enough, however, to push aside his confusion over the news the man had delivered, it so unbelievable he had to confirm it for himself.

  His heart sank as he read the headline on his smartphone.

  President Starling Alive!

  North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Red crouched behind a massive tree with the others, their harassment campaign a success so far. They had easily eliminated half the opposition, yet the men kept pressing on. The rebels would return fire, usually while running away, their guns outstretched behind them, then when they realized they weren’t being fired upon, regroup and continue forward.

  Each time it cost them maybe ten or fifteen minutes, and each time they seemed to recover quicker, now taking to randomly spraying gunfire out ahead of their advance.

  Which was why the team was positioned to their left flank.

  “Lucky we’re not facing trained soldiers,” said Jimmy as the first of the hostiles came into view. “If they just pressed their numerical advantage, we wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”

  Jagger nodded, taking a bead on a target. “Yup, I love amateurs.” He glanced at Red. “Shall we?”

  Red nodded, motioning for them to spread out as one of the rebels emptied a mag into the jungle ahead of him.

  Jagger took up position on the opposite side of the tree, Jimmy and Wings taking up position to their left and right, behind trees of their own. Red activated his comm. “On three… two… one… execute.”

  Red squeezed the trigger, eliminating one of the targets in his arc, then twice more, another two down, but this time they reacted differently. Instead of running, they all dropped to the ground and opened fire, mostly in his team’s direction.

  Red was already bugging out using the massive tree for cover, Jagger directly behind him, the others on their flanks. He heard Jimmy yelp to his right and he looked over, the operator still running at full tilt, whatever had caused him to cry out obviously not enough to put him out of commission.

  The gunfire stopped behind them and they immediately slowed, not wanting to give away their position by snapping any branches. They broke left, to head back in the direction of the crash site and get ahead of the group again. He looked at Jimmy who was examining a tear in the le
ft arm of his shirt. He held up his fingers.

  Blood.

  Jimmy shrugged. “I guess I spoke too soon.”

  “You okay?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, just don’t tell my mom.”

  “If I did I’d have to kill her, and none of us wants that.” Jimmy didn’t say anything, instead examining his wound as they continued forward. “Right?”

  Jimmy glanced up. “Huh?”

  Red laughed, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s get a little ahead of our friends then we’ll take a quick look at that.”

  Jimmy slapped it then glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m more concerned with their response to our last attack.”

  Red nodded. “Agreed. I think they’re getting tired of being killed off twelve by twelve.” He looked at Wings. “What do you figure? Thirty left?”

  Wings stepped around a tree. “At most. I can’t see them wanting to stick around much longer.”

  Wings was right, but the question was how much longer. They had hit them four times, eliminating almost fifty of them, yet they continued to advance, either through incredible courage or a greater fear of what might happen to them if they were to retreat. He had dealt with these types before, and failure wasn’t an option for them. Quite often they had taskmasters back at their base that would kill one or more of them as an example, terrifying those left alive enough never to consider retreating again.

  It usually meant a high body count, though it also sometimes meant victory. Casualties that might send some forces scurrying in retreat quite often only spurred these extremely motivated soldiers forward, which could be very dangerous when the opposition was few in number.

  Like today.

  “They seemed to have grown some balls,” he said, “which changes things. We’re going to have to switch things up.”

  Wings stepped over to a wincing Jimmy, tearing his sleeve apart. “What have you got in mind?” he asked, cutting off Jimmy’s protest with a look.

  “I think it’s time we stopped taking it easy on them.”

  North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Spock had zero doubt now that he was hearing MP5s battling an assortment of AKs. It was clearly a delaying op, the MP5s firing single rounds, almost overlapping, never more than three bursts, all within seconds.

  They’re thinning the herd.

  It must be a vastly superior force, at least in number. He doubted even government forces in this area would be anything to reckon with if it were an even fight, rebels even less so, especially rebels out of practice. If he remembered his briefing on the area properly, the RENAMO rebels were technically at peace, now part of the government, though not all had laid down their arms. If that’s who they were dealing with, whoever was harassing them wouldn’t be dealing with much skill, but they also might be dealing with men who had nothing to lose and nothing to live for.

  There could be no doubt what they were after. The President. Or at least the plane. Whether they knew what plane had crashed or not was moot. A jetliner meant a huge payday just from the luggage alone.

  And if they knew there were survivors, the ransom they had probably been promised would fuel their greed enough that they wouldn’t care how many of their comrades died in trying to reach the crash site.

  As long as it wasn’t themselves.

  He glanced up, trying to get a bead on the sun through the thick trees, it getting lower in the sky as afternoon turned into evening. It would be getting dark soon, which would make it not only more difficult to find what he assumed was Red’s team, but more dangerous.

  He pressed forward, hoping to get in behind them so he could see his friends coming, rather than stumble upon the rebel group, painfully aware he had no weapon.

  South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Dawson stared up at the treetops, it clear the sun was getting lower in the sky, the daylight that managed to cast a dim glow from above through the canopy, dying. They could still see fairly clearly, but someone ahead snapped on their flashlight, followed quickly by the others.

  He wasn’t going to bother reminding them about preserving the batteries. Either the rebels or the rescue team would be on them long before they’d have a chance to run out, and if it were the former, the last thing they’d want would be flashlight beams giving away their position.

  They had barely travelled a mile, the going tough. The small group on the other side of the river had asked if they could move ahead but Dawson had refused, it more important for the two sides to stick together. The other group had no wounded to contend with and he could understand their desire to put some distance between themselves and the rebels, though according to the last update, both the rebels and rescue party were on this side of the river.

  And apparently Red and the boys were thinning the rebels out extremely effectively, to the point there might be none left soon, which would take the pressure off, allowing them to actually set up camp and wait for the rescue team. That obviously would be the ideal situation, he not wanting to travel in the dark. They only had half a dozen flashlights, which meant too much opportunity for someone to twist an ankle. And one twisted ankle could be even slower than two people carrying a stretcher.

  Red won’t let us down.

  Niner came out of the trees ahead, carrying the portable satellite gear. “BD, Colonel wants to speak to you.”

  Dawson frowned. It wasn’t the designated check-in time, which could only mean two things. Either news so good it couldn’t wait, or so bad it couldn’t wait either.

  His money was on the latter.

  He hooked the headset over his ear as he stopped, Niner reestablishing contact. “Control, Bravo Zero-One, come in, over.”

  “Bravo Zero-One, this is Control Actual. I’ve got an update for you and you’re not gonna like it.”

  Gee, what a surprise.

  “Go ahead.”

  “A massively superior force of over two hundred rebels are moving up the Lugenda River toward your location. It appears they have commandeered anything that will float. They definitely know who you are and that you’re alive. They know if they can get their hands on the President they’re set for life.”

  “Any chance of an air strike?”

  “Not in time. You need to get your people moving, Zero-One, there’s no way the rescue team will reach you before they do. They’re already almost at the waterfall where Air Force One is. My guys have you at…no more than two miles from that location. You need to get the President out of there. Leave the rest if you have to.”

  Dawson knew that would be a no go. “Negative, his wife is severely injured. There’s no way he’ll leave her, and he refused to leave earlier, adamant about being the last one out.”

  There was a pause, Dawson imagining the Colonel expressing his opinion with a few expletives he didn’t want on the official record. “You’re on the ground, Zero-One, what’s your assessment?”

  “We’ll have to make a stand. We’ve got weapons and almost a dozen trained personnel. Ammo is the problem.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Control Actual, out.”

  Niner looked at Dawson as he handed him the headset. “What’s the word?”

  Dawson lowered his voice. “Over two hundred hostiles heading our way.”

  “So in other words we’re up shit creek.”

  Dawson smiled. “Not necessarily.”

  He had an idea, but they’d need a lucky break.

  And time they probably didn’t have.

  North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Afonso Domingos stood on the prow of the lead boat, silently urging the small craft on as it struggled against not only the current but the heavy load of men she bore. Yet they were almost there. They had made excellent time, especially when news had arrived that it was Air Force One, the plane belonging to the President of the United States.

  Not a soul had refused the use of their boat, more and more joining their mini-armada as they
moved forward, allowing him to spread the men out and speed up their progress.

  And it was only his men. The villagers that lived along the river were not welcome. This was a payday for him and those under his command. This one miracle from the sky would change their lives forever, make up for the ridiculous concessions that had been forced upon them by the peace accords, and allow them to all live a life of luxury.

  Perhaps even in the United States.

  It had always been a dream, and it had him wondering what the best course of action actually would be. If the President were alive, would he receive the reward he deserved for rescuing him? Or would he simply receive a handshake and pat on the back? All of the sacrifices he had made over the years had culminated in nothing but the respect of his men. He cherished that respect, though it didn’t feed him or put a Jaguar in front of his far too humble home.

  He had dealt with Westerners before, and it didn’t matter if they were white or black.

  They thought they were superior.

  He felt a surge of anger rush through him.

  A handshake and a bag of rice, that’s what they’ll give you!

  He sneered at the falls in the distance.

  What you do today you do for your men, and your family, for generations to come.

  His decision was made. If the President were alive, they’d hold him for a ransom fit for the king he was.

  Or he’d die, along with everyone with him.

  Today he was in control.

  Today he was superior.

  South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Lt. Commander Rich Jacobson hacked away at the underbrush, the Search and Rescue team heading single file through the thick jungle, each man taking his turn in the lead, the swinging of the heavy blade tiring.

  And they had to keep fresh.

  Fatigue was their enemy, and the hot, humid, dense jungle was working against them almost every step of the way. The underbrush was thick and they were barely covering a mile per hour.