by Ben English
*
The observation post overlooked the entire field of battle: two bunkers, sand dunes and broken walls obscuring a direct line of sight between them, and sparse vegetation. Nicole handed him a set of three-by-five cards detailing the mission she’d designed; it read straight out of the playbook. A hostage rescue, with a dozen defenders ringed around a central holding cell in the closest bunker. The rescue team, led by the potential recruit, would cut the power to the bunker, infiltrate, and snatch the prisoner.
They were joined in the overlook by a third man, an older Cuban, who greeted them curtly. He was wrinkled, grey, and scarred, but moved with grace, as if oiled. Alonzo didn’t need to look at the hashmarks on his sleeve to recognize a non-commissioned officer when he saw one, and his mood instantly improved.
Nicole and the Tanners were doing their job; all the other Latin American armies possessed little or nothing in the way of a non-commissioned officer class; enlisted men in positions of authority weren’t typically trusted by their governments, and their militaries paid for it dearly in terms of raw efficiency, leadership, and equipment maintenance. Most importantly, without a level of officer responsible for the leadership and training of his fellow soldiers, battle skills deteriorated quickly. Non-commissioned officers were the key to the longevity of practically anything the Tanners could teach the locals.
Alonzo greeted the Primer Sub-Oficial in good Cuban Spanish, pronouncing the c’s and z’s with a glossy, solid sharpness. His Andalusian ancestors would have been proud. The sub-oficial sure was, suddenly grinning and clapping him on the back. Nicole’s Spanish wasn’t anywhere near full fluency, and he found he enjoyed her expression as she struggled to keep up with the noncom’s explanation of the exercise.
The affair below began. Nicole pointed out the potential candidate, a young sergeant leading a fairly well-organized pack of fellow soldiers in a cadenced run across the broken ground. Each man carried a paintball gun, and as they approached the bunker, flecks of blue and yellow began to appear on the rocks and sand around them as they came under fire.
The young sergeant instantly switched tactics, splitting his team into three groups and sending two off to flank the concrete building. He kept his two demolitions men with him, and the three men worked closer and closer to the target as the other groups laid down suppressing fire on the bunker’s windows and fire ports.
Someone below threw a flash-bang, which fell short of the bunker and sent up a gout of sand and pebbles.
“Where are his heavy weapons? Snipers?” Nicole asked. Wordlessly, their companion pointed at the spot the attackers had originated from. Two men sat on the tailgate of a jeep, their large hardware at their sides.
“Looks like he decided to travel light and fast,” Alonzo said.
The young sergeant and his two companions took cover behind a low wall, which was quickly turning funhouse blue under the combined fire of at least three defenders.
A CCD viewscreen showed them the flurry of activity within the bunker. The outer rooms were connected by a single hallway, lit by a fluorescent bulb. The hostage sat with a bag over his head in the inner room, a man standing next to him ready to “execute” the prisoner by tapping him on the shoulder. The assault would have to be faster; there was no time for negotiation, and if the assaulting force lost its forward momentum or became pinned down, the hostage would be gone.
The sergeant apparently thought so as well. Alonzo watched his face through a pair of field binoculars; watched his body language as he positioned himself between his two demolitions men. The number of potentially successful tactics he could use were narrowing, but there was still a possibility of getting to the hostage in time. All he needed to do was make no mistakes.
Coming to a decision, he set his rifle down and shoved the two men flanking him out into the open. Almost instantly, they were peppered with hits, splashed with blue and yellow.
The sergeant threw himself over the top of the wall, firing semi-auto. Three targets, three tightly-placed groupings of shots—and Alonzo confirmed it on the CCD monitor: three defenders hit and “down”. The candidate made it to the base of the bunker.
The old noncom began to curse. He was very good at it, and Alonzo was glad for the limits of Nicole’s Spanish. Despite the fact that she’d been born and raised by the U.S. Navy, there were just some phrases that never sounded right around a woman. The sub-oficial spat those phrases out in one exceedingly long, run-on sentence.
No language has more pathways for profanity than good Spanish, and the man’s monologue was an edifice of such creativity that Alonzo nearly found himself distracted from the unfolding battle below.
“What’s he saying?” Nicole demanded.
“Absolutely no idea.” Alonzo flipped through the mission outline. “Are we off the script here?”
“Definitely off script. His little maneuver there surprised everybody in the bunker, but he needed at least one of those men to cut the power.”
“Looks like he kept one of their packs to blow the door.”
Alonzo was wrong. The sergeant wasn’t concerned about the door at all. He heaved a satchel charge—a packet of live explosives, intended for doorbusting—through a narrow window and crouched outside, covering his ears and opening his mouth.
For a solid two seconds, the scene on the monitor was pure bedlam, as everyone in the bunker including the three “dead” defenders dove away from the satchel or scrambled for an intervening wall.
The explosion shuddered a thick layer of dust from the bunker, the shockwave bouncing the young sergeant from his position at the crook where the wall met the ground.
Like a staccato beat, a second, smaller explosion jolted the building.
Static filled the monitors, but the hardened audio equipment continued to pick up the screams of the wounded as Alonzo leaped out of the observation tower and ran down the hill. By the time he and Nicole reached the concrete building, the medics had arrived and were working on the door. Vern Tanner appeared, wielding an enormous crowbar, and soon a line of injured began filing from the building. The grey, weathered sub-oficial stood barking orders, having to repeat himself many times, as several of the men stumbling from the building had the red, trickling headwounds characteristic of violently burst eardrums. The noncom’s sidearm was secured in its holster; if he had been in the old man’s place, Alonzo thought, he’d have been sorely tempted to arrange something final and permanent for the young sergeant.
Alonzo and Nicole looked for someplace useful to insert themselves, but nothing presented itself, so they went inside the bunker. The dust and smoke was still thick in the air, and black bits of charred paper sailed though the air on miniature thermals, spiraling and gliding like predatory fish.
They were careful not to touch anything, but quickly saw that the satchel charge had exploded against an inner wall. Meant to be shaped and formed against a specific barrier but lacking any kind of anchor, the doorbuster had launched itself through a wall, tearing a rough hole through the concrete. In the second room, the charge had seemingly exploded again, scattering pieces of furniture into the four corners of the room.
Vern’s brother, Mack, moved through the cinders and debris, bits of wood and plastic snapping under his boots. Red-faced and furious, he nodded once at Alonzo and bent to examine the secondary flashpoint. “It’s worse than you think,” he said, and snapped a picture with his phone.
Nicole lowered her handkerchief a moment. “What do you mean?”
Mack straightened and shook his head. “The kid did this on purpose. It was part of his plan all along.” He pointed at the path of the satchel charge. “You ever see this before? Ever know a packed, secured explosive to ‘accidentally’ angle off like this, then have a secondary in another room?” Shook his head again, all gristle and tension.
“He’s the best demolitions guy in this batch. Gifted.”
“Takes more than a gift to do this,” Alonzo said. “He needed to know the building, wall co
mposition, exact measurements of C-4. Balls of solid steel to know he could pop the defenders in the first room and have everyone else gathered over here, shooting back at the rest of his assault force.”
“So he packed the satchel charge himself?” Nicole asked.
“I think he knew he was being watched today. Heard the rumors that he was being set up for something special, probably figured there was a reason behind the extra attention me and Vern have been giving him and his squad.”
“So this FUBAR clusterbomb was him showing off?” Nicole coughed and said, “What about the hostage? Would he have survived?”
Mack snapped a picture of the hole in the wall. “He barely survived as it is. Caught a piece of rebar in the leg. But yeah, there were two walls between both explosions. Hostage would have made it.”
Other uniformed figures began swimming through the dust. Alonzo and Nicole formed up in Mack’s wake and made their way out of the building.
Time to get back to work.
The young sergeant was face down in the pebbles near the treeline, one soldier tending to his scraped arm while another kept his boot firmly on the prone man’s neck. Still, he managed to squirm enough to turn his head and spit out a mouthful of dust as they passed.
“I am Sergeant First Class Rogiberto Revillame!”
“Don’t need to know your name,” Alonzo replied, in English.
*
By early afternoon Rogiberto was off the base—not discharged, no, but something like unto it. They wanted to give him plenty of time to realize he was off the elite team, off the career rocket. Give him plenty of time to get drunk and think about what he’d done, let the guilt and shame work on him. Well. He’d show them guilt and shame. A girl, a jintera, would be the best way to start the evening early, but they all seemed to be selling their services down in the discos or tourist bars, or they’d somehow heard what happened during the training exercise, and vanished at his approach. By the third bar he decided that everyone knew. Everyone knew what he’d done, and he still couldn’t believe it himself.
‘Berto hadn’t killed anyone, of course. That was never his intention, and he was far too good with explosives to allow any permanent injuries. The moment was coming, and he’d felt it, felt it for weeks under the tutelage of the two American brothers from the DEA. The moment when he’d step up to something greater. It was nearly there, but he wasn’t going to wait for it, no. Better to reach out and pull it to himself.
At least they hadn’t shot him, or made him to vanish like in the stories he’d heard as a child. Berto knew his superiors needed every good man in some kind of uniform, now that the country’s military was once again in infancy. And there would be a record somewhere showing that he was the first to be demoted so harshly, the first made such an example of.
“Private first class,” he said. “Private first class, instead of a court-martial, because that is the minimum rank allowed for my duty.”
“And what is that?” the foreigner asked.
“I am the only properly trained technishul—excuse me, technician at the new air-defense unit.” Was this the first bar, or the fourth? “You were in the same bar as I was two hours ago,” Berto pointed out. “And you did not drink. I think that you are following me.”
“You are very perceptive, my friend.” The other man replied. “And I am drinking now.” He topped Berto’s cup, and then his own. Raising his drink he said, “To the new Cuba.”
The other man’s Spanish was another thing that reminded Berto of the soldiers of his youth. The foreign soldiers, the non-Cubans, who spoke with clipped vowels and smoked European cigarettes. They did not enjoy Spanish.
Berto raised his own cup. “Viva la Cuba,” he said.
Before either man could drink, the other added, “And to your place of glory in the new Cuba.”
Berto eyed the other man with as much suspicion as he could muster. “What do you mean by that?” The foreigner’s language wasn’t the only thing off about the man. He’d recently seen hard action, most likely a gunfight. Berto could tell such things. His sallow European features held the promise of more danger.
The other man’s eyes glittered. “You were meant for great things.”
Berto set his cup down. Was this it? Was this the moment?
The other man measured him with eyes both amiable and sharp. Berto waited. At length, the foreigner spoke. “You and I, we should talk about life, and what can be accomplished with the right effort and decent timing. What is your name, my friend?”
He drew himself up as much as he was able. “I am Sergeant Fir—Private First Class Rogiberto Revillame.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said Miklos Nasim.
The Further Adventures of Stan and Ollie
Blackness.
Warm, soft. Comforting. Something like the sleep of an innocent man.
A hint of sound.
The sense of motion, and the realization you exist. Upward motion, gentle but fast. Everything is green; brilliant, liquid green, rising along with you. Eternity compresses to an instant, sound roars in.
And Jack blinked awake.
Pliant green light poured into the aircraft from the orderly row of oval windows, more and more as the passengers around him roused themselves and slid the window coverings up. A flight attendant bustled by with two pots of coffee. Everywhere, people yawned and settled themselves in for the descent into Miami.
Jack watched them a moment, then brushed the sleep from his eyes and found the carpet with his stocking feet. He always came awake like this, fast, and had to pause before rushing off headlong into the day. Pulling in a deep breath, he tightened the muscles in his arms and legs, then his body and neck. He drew himself in, compressing and compacting the strength loosened by sleep. Not the greatest rest, but he’d take what he could get for the next few days. With any luck, Al had booked him into the Parque Central, and he could get a bit of decent sleep before the inauguration.
On the ground in Miami he received a pleasant surprise in the form of the new team jet. The flight attendants—exhibiting exactly the same level of chirpy good spirits and capability as they’d shown less than twenty-four hours previously—presented him with a Cuban breakfast as he settled in. The galley chef somehow already knew his habits; she substituted the café con leche with a banana-based protein shake.
The flight was too short to make proper use of the QSST’s top speed. Even so, they’d land in José Martí International less than 25 minutes after takeoff. Jack reviewed the mission specs, letting his mind play up and down over the possible events of the next few days. He knew what Alonzo would say: the team was too exposed, spread too thin to act in a merely reactionary manner, and the Cuban president didn’t need them acting as police. Ferreting out Raines and his plans took priority for the team, but explaining that to Espinosa would be a trick.
Espinosa was singular. An economist before a politician, he came to politics with a combination of natural affability and personal courage usually reserved for revolutionaries or the very religious. The spotlight loved him, as well. He was similar to the elder Castro in those few characteristics only, and quite possibly the only native Cuban alive who could preside over the rise of a Cuba strong and resurgent as the dominant economic power in the Caribbean. Following the theory that a rising tide carries all ships, keeping Espinosa alive and firmly at the helm rode as the unspoken concern of most of the national leaders in this part of the world.
Jack’s only concern was that the man’s gratitude might somehow hinder the team’s ability to move quickly. In keeping up appearances as a Latin American head of state, Espinosa could be both public and lavish with his thanks. Jack hoped the man would be too distracted by his own inauguration and the incipient Games to spend any attention on Jack’s small team. Espinosa owed them nothing. Just let us move freely and fast, he prayed.
Jack checked the contents of his travel bag and repacked everything. The idea of indebtedness didn’t sit well. Too many peo
ple thought highly of him. What did Irene say last night, as he was headed into the shower? Jack taught me how to kiss. Wonder what she meant by that?
He dialed Alonzo’s phone. “What’s going on?” he said, without preamble.
The other man was pissed. “Just wasted an hour at a trainee test, watching one of the locals screw up a hardened snatch-and-grab. Guy was almost good enough for the Golden Question, but no control.”
“No sense of proportional violence?” It sounded like a potential recruit was trying too hard to impress, and explosives were involved.
“Exactly. Are you in Cuba?”
“I’m still about 15 minutes out. Don’t worry about sending someone to the airport to pick me up. I’ll get a motorcycle or something easy.”
Alonzo made a noncommittal noise. “Well, the trip wasn’t a total bust. We’ve had to drive past a whole bunch of beaches. It’s made me realize something.”
“What’s that?”
“The guy who invented the bikini deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. I swear, Jack. Can you think of anything else in the history of the world that has done more to distract men from killing each other than the basic black bikini?”
He finished repacking his bag. Jack settled his clothing in place, fit his equipment carefully in, and gave the crystal falcon a polish on the hem of his shirt. It was good to see Irene again. Jack taught me how to kiss. The tiny, unmistakable sound of Mercedes’ voice on the other end of Irene’s phone. His mouth eased toward a smile. The towel in the kitchen in Studio City smelled just like her hair.
His smile became a full grin.
Jack set the falcon on the table before him, nestling it into a cup coaster so it wouldn’t roll away as the plane banked. Green light found the crystal, and Jack’s thoughts followed the spins of light around the cabin; miniature, illuminated worlds. The falcon cast points and dashes of captured heat, shone like a pocket-sized summer afternoon.