The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  The Afrikaner rose and asked Lange if he was a Landsman. Again, Lange nodded vigorously. Stone watched the wide-shouldered man glare at Asuty’s men milling about the truck, now guarded by two of Van Wartt’s men.

  Wahab, Van Wartt, and Asuty had climbed into the boxcar and were examining the bomb, which Stone now saw for the first time. Bull interrupted Stone’s attention when he reached down and carefully pulled back the tape from Lange’s mouth. Dirk’s right eye was swollen, and blood ran down his ear. He whispered a few minutes to Bull, who partially replaced the tape so that it drooped.

  Interesting and encouraging, Stone thought and noted the same impression in Sandra’s eyes. His attention went back to the nuclear weapon inside the boxcar. The terrorists held flashlights that illuminated the same fat, brutish bomb that had appeared in the photographs he studied a day before in the CIA safe house. Stone had never been in the presence of a nuclear bomb. As he studied it, he tried to fathom the awesome destruction contained within the bronze-colored metal casing. Then there was the radiation leakage. How bad was it?

  Wahab, Van Wartt, and Asuty seemed to be perplexed about how they were going to move the heavy object onto the flatbed truck.

  Bull jumped from the boxcar and walked in the direction of Asuty’s men, who had assembled by the truck, speaking quietly. He stopped, placed the submachine gun on his shoulder, and shot a worried glanced back at Lange.

  Van Wartt ordered the truck to be pulled alongside the boxcar and instructed Asuty to position his men to move the bomb while Van Wartt’s two men watched with guns ready. The makeshift crane on the flatbed truck didn’t look capable of lifting the heavy metal mass, but it could drag it. Bull climbed on the back of the truck and directed the maneuver. The crane pulled rather than lifted the bulk resting on a wooden pallet onto the flatbed, straining the truck’s suspension and flattening its rear tires. After securing the bomb with ropes, a ragged canvas tarp was thrown over it. They were ready to move to the airstrip, and Stone knew the next order of business was the disposition of him and his two companions. Would Abdul Wahab do the killing?

  Asuty leaped from the truck and shouted in Arabic to two jihadists. They walked purposefully in Stone’s direction. At the same time, Stone saw that Bull was talking to Van Wartt and pointing to Dirk Lange. Bull knew that Lange was a South African and an Afrikaner. Did he suspect Lange was an intelligence officer? Van Wartt turned away, but Bull continued to speak, now gesturing with his hands.

  The two henchmen approaching with Asuty had large grins. Asuty spoke as if addressing a classroom of students. “Time to die.” He waved back to the truck, enjoyment in his eyes. “This bomb is a message to your corrupt world.”

  “We don’t have time for this nonsense.” It was Van Wartt speaking, aiming an automatic at Asuty’s head. Bull and Van Wartt’s men covered the jihadists standing on the truck. “Get your bloody asses on the truck. Now!”

  Asuty straightened and lifted his chin. “They will die. Then we leave.” He motioned to the man next to him, who drew an automatic pistol from inside his shirt.

  Van Wartt turned his head, keeping his eyes on Asuty and the man with the gun. In Afrikaans he spoke to Bull, standing behind him. Bull said, “Ja,” and raised his gun to eye level, aiming at the man.

  “Enough,” Abdul Wahab shouted from the side. He pointed his Beretta at Asuty. “Tell him to drop the gun.”

  Asuty’s face contorted, and then he motioned to his henchmen to drop their weapons.

  “Get in the truck.”

  Wahab’s actions confused Stone. Why did he stop Asuty from killing them? Did he fear Van Wartt? Stone looked over at Sandra, who also appeared perplexed.

  At this, a plane roared past a hundred feet overhead, landing lights on, heading for the Bruin Karas airstrip. Stone looked up, not believing what he saw. An ancient twin-engine Fairchild C-119, Flying Boxcar, a Korean War-era military cargo plane. Probably the only remaining aircraft of its kind not in a museum. He detected a faint trail of black smoke coming from its starboard engine.

  Asuty’s men began shouting. One started the truck and switched on the truck’s headlights. Amid the commotion, Wahab took Asuty’s arm firmly. “Let’s go!”

  Van Wartt and Bull looked down at the three lying on the ground. “We’ll put them in the boxcar for the time being. If the need arises, we can use them as hostages,” Van Wartt said while studying Lange.

  Stone and the other two were dragged across the hard-packed dirt to the boxcar and lifted inside. When all three were in, Van Wartt looked at them for a moment, but again said nothing. The door closed and someone slid the bolt shut. The straining groan of the overloaded truck’s motor grew fainter as it headed for the airfield. The Land Rover could be heard following.

  A moment of quiet passed in the darkness, and then, as if on cue, all squirmed next to each other. Stone and Sandra with their free fingers attempted to pull off the duct tape, first from their hands, then when free, their feet. Lange freed his mouth from the loose tape and whispered words of encouragement. The two carefully peeled the duct tape from their mouths and took deep breaths.

  “Do you see any way out of here?” Stone asked, finding the closed door with his hands.

  “This might help.” Sandra switched on a miniature LED flashlight attached to a key ring.

  The interior of the wooden boxcar smelled of dust and age from years sitting in a relentless sun. They found the doors on either side locked from the outside.

  “Shine the light up on the roof,” Lange said. “Should be hatches up there.”

  “There,” Sandra said. “Either of you two gents care to give me a boost?”

  Both Stone and Lange lifted Sandra up to the hatch. She pushed and banged, but the hatch wouldn’t open. While holding her, Stone’s legs, groin, and arms ached. His face, he knew, was bruised, but neither eye was closed like Lange’s. Sandra hadn’t complained of any injuries. “Tough gal,” he wanted to tell her, but knew she would consider the remark condescending.

  They sat, or rather collapsed to the floor, with the flashlight’s thin light pointing in the center of their circle. Exhausted, Stone wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but knew they had to come up with a plan of escape.

  “Nothing in the realm of possibility would allow for one of us to still have a radio?” Lange asked.

  “They used mine to put this gash in my head,” Stone said.

  “I threw mine out in the bush along with my Glock before I surrendered.”

  Stone stretched, but stopped when a pain shot along his back. He closed his eyes and reviewed what could be the sequence of future events. “Our terrorists are now loading an ancient atomic bomb in the hold of an equally ancient Fairchild C-119, named by airmen years ago without affection as ‘The Flying Coffin’ for its shape as well as its propensity to crash.”

  “Hayden, how do you come up with that stuff?” Sandra sounded annoyed.

  “I had a ride on one when I was in college ROTC.”

  “Considering your age, I imagine it would have been in one of those World War I biplanes, mate.” Lange laughed. “By the way, I want to thank you two for inviting me along on this little picnic.”

  Remembering that the man called Bull had a private conversation with Lange, Stone asked, “What was up with you and your fellow Boer?”

  “Agh. To take a turn on one of your expressions, Boers are thicker than water.”

  Stone explained. “Dirk. Knowing you were an Afrikaner saved us … for the time being. I still can’t believe Wahab let us live.”

  “Any ideas where they’re taking the bomb?” Sandra asked, but no one answered.

  Sandra turned off the light to save the battery. They sat silently in the dark. Colonel Gustave Frederick would soon fly in with the bomb removal team, late for the show. Chances were good they’d come to the boxcar and release them. Then they’d make plans to intercept the C-119 carrying the bomb.

  Stone began thinking
about how radioactive the boxcar could be when Lange whispered, “Hello. I believe one of our motorcycles has returned.”

  “Hope your buddy Bull has come to release us,” Stone said.

  They waited for someone to release the latch on one of the doors. Stone and his companions got to their feet and heard an unwelcomed voice.

  “Well, CIA spies. The time has come. You did not truly believe you would live?”

  It was Nabeel Asuty’s voice, and they soon learned what he had in mind. A hissing sound came from below the wooden floor, and through the cracks in the planks he saw a crimson glow. Smoke started creeping into the boxcar.

  “Would have preferred to saw off your head, Mr. Stone. You too, blonde slut.”

  As the motorcycle took off, Sandra growled, “Let’s make a pact. If anyone lives, that asshole dies.”

  A second flare had been placed at the opposite end of the car. It took no time for the dry planks to catch fire and burn hot. The smoke proved the immediate problem—they would be asphyxiated before they burned to death. The two red glowing areas lit the inside of the car, and through the smoke, Stone watched Lange place both arms around Sandra. He should be the one doing that.

  One of the hot spots burst into flames and the heat became oppressive. Stone wondered if he could jump through one of the flaming holes to the outside, but quickly realized the choking smoke would not allow them the time to wait for a hole to form.

  “Our only chance is to break open this door,” Stone yelled. “Let’s hit it. All at once!”

  They repeatedly slammed their bodies against the door. Stone knew he ached from the beatings he received and knew his companions hurt. Their determination to open the door despite their pain impressed him.

  The flames came from both sides, and all coughed from the smoke. Finally the aged planking holding the latch gave. They yanked the door open and cool air rushed in. All three leaped from the boxcar, landing and rolling on the ground.

  Not long after, as they sat on the dirt and coughed, Bull and a youngster drove up, came over, and passed around a water jug. The railcar roared in flames. All lifted their heads as the old plane lumbered above them.

  “There goes the bomb,” Bull said.

  The flames reflected off the plane’s gray undercarriage. There were no aircraft identification markings. Just as they heard the last of the C-119’s engines, another smaller twin-engine propjet flew overhead and turned south in the opposite direction.

  “Mr. Van Wartt and Abdul Wahab returning to Cape Town.” Bull searched their faces and asked, “Would have expected any competent military operation to have a backup, aye Mr. Dirk Lange?”

  “Our backup must have stopped for coffee,” Stone said.

  “Quite the joker, Yank,” Bull said. “But there is a bit of Armageddon on that plane.”

  Stone wanted to thank him for his part in having the bomb get into the hands of the terrorists, but considering he held a submachine gun, thought better of it.

  “I’ll try to find my phone,” Sandra said, groaning as she raised herself. “I ditched it before surrendering. Do you mind?”

  “Take this torch, miss,” Bull said, handing her a flashlight. “Watch out for the creatures.”

  Stone offered to go with her, and they walked carefully toward the spot where she had hidden. In short time they found her phone and the Glock she had left there.

  “Hide it under your shirt,” Stone said. “Our friend Bull would more likely suspect me of having it.”

  “Really?”

  “Sweetheart, you know me better than to be chauvinistic, but Bull’s world is a few years behind.”

  “Don’t give me that ‘Sweetheart’ shit.”

  “Sandra. Did you notice the friction between Abdul Wahab and his man Asuty?”

  “Yeah. Trouble in paradise.”

  “Might have saved our lives.”

  “And how about that Bull and his buddy Van Wartt?” Sandra whispered as they neared Bull and Lange.

  “Lucky for us Bull has a mind of his own.”

  When they came up to the two Afrikaners, it was apparent they had established some sort of bond. The two men conversed as they walked to the Land Rover. At the same time, Lange motioned for Stone and Sandra to follow. They passed the burning hulk of railcar throwing a trail of sparks to the star-crowded sky.

  Sandra phoned Colonel Frederick. “Colonel, I have some news. Asuty has taken off flying north with the nuclear bomb in an unmarked C-119.” Pause. “We couldn’t stop him … We were captured—” She stopped and swirled around toward the boxcar fire. Stone saw from her body movements that Frederick was doing all the talking and from her nervous “Yeses” and “Rights” that he was pissed. At one point she suggested he talk with Stone, but when Sandra threw up her free hand, Stone knew he was not going to speak with him.

  The conversation ended with her saying she’d wait for further instructions. She whispered to Stone, “Frederick was only an hour from landing here. He’s decided to return to the staging area. Someone will come and pick us up. I think he said early morning.” She put her phone in her pocket. Touching his shoulder, she added, “He suggested I tell you something.”

  “Oh?”

  “Retire.”

  Bull Rhyton’s homestead was a mile away from the town of Bruin Karas and a quarter mile off the paved road. Dinner consisted of leftover breakfast putu porridge, venison sausage, and fresh oven-baked biscuits, hard on the outside, soft inside. Bull passed around jerky, called biltong.

  Mrs. Rhyton, a stout woman with graying hair and weather-worn features, did not conceal her dislike for the Americans, but Stone watched Bull pull her aside and point to Sandra. She bent over and touched her bruised face, and tenderly led her toward the bedroom. In between tut-tuts, Stone heard her tell Sandra she had medicines for the cuts. The children, barefoot and bronzed, wandered through the kitchen, and even the youngest, not much over six years old, wasn’t hesitant to look Stone straight in the eye.

  At the kitchen table huddled over their meals, Dirk Lange and Bull spoke in low tones peppered with ja-nee, the non-committal Afrikaner phrase for “yes, no,” and used when nothing else comes to mind. Stone took his plate out to the front porch open to the sky. He sat on a wooden crate and gazed up, remembering Sandra’s words on how dark it got in places like this, in the middle of nowhere. Dark it was, except for stars so many and so bright that it was impossible for him to make out their constellations. The moon’s mountain ranges etched its brilliant surface.

  Hayden Stone knew his impatience had led to a bad decision. He should have stayed with his group and not approached the boxcar. It had been a trap and he fell into it—like a greenhorn. The blame for the terrorists escaping with the bomb rested on his shoulders. Colonel Frederick had reason to be disgusted. He had screwed up before, but never with such potential consequences.

  Bad situations had been turned around in the past. He’d do so again, he was certain. Still. Flying somewhere over the vastness of Africa, jihadists had a nuclear weapon and planned to use it against the West. Maybe if the gods were on the right side that relic of an airplane wouldn’t make it to its destination.

  Bull came out the screen door and sat next to him. He held two mason jars with clear liquid. “I gave your comrades pain pills. Do you want one?”

  “No. Thank you.” Stone looked down at the drinks.

  Bull huffed. “You were the one who took the worst beating. Maybe this is more to your liking.” He handed Stone a jar. “Not a very fancy glass for an American.”

  “This is how we drink our moonshine back home.” Stone took a good gulp and, as expected, felt the burning slide down his throat. “Nice and mild.”

  Bull grunted.

  “If you knew where that plane was headed, would you tell me?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Therefore, Bull would tell Dirk, not me the Yank. “Would Van Wartt tell me?”

  �
�Dawie van Wartt doesn’t talk to your kind.” Bull leaned his elbows on his knees. “Dawie is happy to be rid of the whole mess.”

  “Did you hear Abdul Wahab mention where Asuty was headed?”

  “Wahab. Now there’s a slippery devil. I don’t think you’d have a problem getting the information from him. For the right price.”

  There it was again. The black-and-white image of Abdul Wahab as an adversary fogged. Stone took another drink and let the alcohol seep down into his body, dulling the pain.

  Bull said as he got up, “Guess you have to ask Nabeel Asuty where the bomb is.”

  “When I meet Asuty again, a conversation is not on the agenda.”

  The next day, Stone waited on the side of the red-dirt runway, taking in the sweet liquid of an African morning. Sandra’s phone buzzed. From the speaker Stone heard a familiar voice he hadn’t expected—Jacob, his Mossad friend. Minutes later a large helicopter made a wide sweep around the airfield. The three miniature motorcycles and the equipment that Asuty’s jihadists hadn’t pilfered were staged for loading. As if not to have guilty knowledge, Stone turned away when Lange handed one of the Browning rifles to Bull. A token of appreciation from Lange for saving their lives.

  Stone watched Bull’s nephew, Corneliu, whisper to his uncle. Bull came up to Stone. “My nephew says the same copter landed here some days ago. People who were in it got out and inspected the boxcar.”

  The helicopter landed, blowing dust and gravel over everyone. Stone watched Jacob hop out the door. He wasn’t smiling.

  Over the noise of the rotors winding down, Jacob yelled, “You fucked up, Stone. Big time.”

  “Any idea where the jihadists are?” Stone asked.

  Jacob now had a coughing spell and motioned for them to move away from swirling dust. Given his cough, Stone was surprised to see that Jacob looked healthier than the last time they had met.

  “They were heading north,” Jacob said. “I suspect toward Libya.”

  “They’d have to stop for fuel a couple of times,” Stone said. “Probably near Luanda, Angola first.”