Kosoko easily convinced his men they would be better off running their own little fiefdom. They turned their backs on the government at the drop of hat. They called themselves the Free Congolese Brigade. They were free men, and they had done well. Now he sat inside the American embassy. He was safe for the time being, but at this point, only one thing scared him, and it - or they - were threatening to fill the courtyard below.
The secure phone rang. Kosoko’s mouth slowly curved upward. So they the Americans have something to say. Choose your words wisely my friends.
His hand fell hovering above the receiver. He let it ring a few times before he picked up the phone.
“This is Colonel Kosoko.”
STEELE
Somewhere over the Atlantic
The flight had been uneventful. A spattering of heads decorated the economy class cabin, most laying unmoving on their headrests asleep. Since the team moved into position for their special protection detail, they were technically off the clock. A boring prospect filled with magazines, tablets and music, but even being off the clock Steele could never really fully relax.
Steele plowed through his Muscle & Fitness magazine taking notes on how to perfect his deadlift, and moved on to The Economist. Often CT agents worked twenty-four hour days, especially when they deployed on international missions. He used his time to catch up on his reading. Finding a chill song, he opened his magazine.
He perused several articles as he listened. Steele grew bored reading an article about how the U.S. was starting to engage the Afghan Taliban in talks. He turned the page, and browsed an article about how Detroit was bankrupt and unable to pay its city employees. It was so bad the city had stopped turning on street lamps. The Motor City was in rough shape.
Steele had grown up in Bloomfield Hills, a northern Detroit suburb. The suburbs around Detroit were very nice, and as long as the auto industry had thrived, these affluent areas had done the same. When the auto industry collapsed in 2008 and needed a bailout, many people had moved out of state, leaving the region stripped of good paying jobs.
After he left for college, his parents retreated to their second home on the sand dunes of Lake Michigan in an effort to get away from the sink hole of Detroit. They lived in a beautiful log cabin surrounded by deep woods on one side and the lake on the other. Long beautiful beaches stretched either way as far as the eye could see, every inch covered in clean gold sand. Clear fresh water touched the horizon with blue fingers, contrasting and complementing the beach at the same time. It was like living on a privately owned fresh water ocean.
Five hours in, Steele’s eyes were dried out and strained from staring at his screen for so long. He stood up, stretched, squeezed some drops in his eyes and joined Mauser, who stood in the back galley with an attractive flight attendant. The frequent globetrotting made hook-ups easy for both groups. Steele had dated one in the past, and decided that once was enough. He smiled as he watched his friend. You old dog, you.
“Can I get you anything, sweetheart?” the red-haired pixie cut flight attendant asked.
“Just some coffee, ma’am. Thank you.”
She handed Steele his coffee, which he sipped as he listened to Mauser laying it on thick: “Yeah, I remember my first rescue. It was a lady with her baby stranded at sea. Their sailboat capsized, and we arrived too late to save the father.”
Mauser shook his head really playing it up.“The winds were whipping the helo somethin’ fierce. We just couldn’t keep the chopper over the wreck. The pilot screamed that it was too rough to go in, but I couldn’t let them die. I just couldn’t have lived with myself with their deaths on my conscience. So I launched myself from the helicopter door, dropping feet first into the twenty foot crashing waves.”
The flight attendant gazed at him, free hand covering her mouth. Mauser had this one in the bag. Steele shook his head and looked out the exit door porthole. The vast dark ocean sprawled out beneath him. At thirty-five thousand feet it was possible to make out tiny ships and, on closer inspection, itty-bitty white caps.
Steele had been returning home with Jarl from an international mission, tracking a Hezbollah cell, when a crazed passenger tried to pry open the emergency exit door. It was just the kind of thing they didn’t want to deal with when they were trying to get back home.
“I, I, I...I have to get out of here,” the man yelled, standing in his seat. The balding passenger, in a sweat stained business suit with a loosened tie, leapt from his seat and sprinted up to the front galley.
Steele made eye contact with Jarl, who’s lip curled upward on his face. Steele almost laughed aloud at his partner’s expression, but held it together.
It wasn’t humanly possible for the man to open the door mid-flight. The pressurization in the passenger cabin made it an impossible feat. Steele sat calm in his seat observing the man break bad. A man who was about to have a very bad day. The psychotic businessman shoved a flight attendant to the ground and threw all his weight into the aircraft door lever.
It always seemed to Steele that if you wanted to see peoples’ IQs drop forty points, the best way was to hand them a boarding pass. Instant lobotomy.
This guy is in for a world of hurt. Unsuccessful at prying open the door, the man once again threw his weight onto the lever, trying to force the door open. This has gone on long enough. With a flick of his wrist he unbelted himself and moved with speed to the front galley.
“Don’t move,” Steele shouted.
The crazed passenger looked right through him with a thousand-yard stare, heaving even harder on the door.
Jarl effectively covered Steele’s back while he worked. Contact and cover rules. With his height, Jarl had excellent vision over the cabin, making it easy for Steele to work without interference from other passengers or potential hostiles. Steele almost felt bad for anyone who tried to get past him.
Cornered, the crazed man took a wild swing at Steele. Steele saw it coming from a mile away and deflected the punch with a bent elbow and followed with a quick jab to the nose. The nose pushed inward rewarding Steele with a sharp crack. Smoothly, he transitioned into an arm-bar using the perpetrator’s shoulder joint to take him to the ground.
“Ooh, my nose. I have to...get...” the deranged man whimpered.
“It’s all right, buddy, just take it easy.” Steele swept the perp’s arm behind his back, placing a knee on the man’s lower back and neck to maintain control. Once Steele had gained control of the man’s other hand, he quickly pulled out his cuffs. Click. Click. Steel bracelets on.
Hauling the man to his feet, he checked on the flight attendant.
“Flight Attendant, are you okay?”
The older wrinkled woman smiled faintly. “Yes, thank you.” She rubbed her elbow where she had fallen.
“Good. Will you let the Captain know we took care of the issue?”
“Yes. Thank God you were here,” she said, picking up the galley phone.
“Anytime, ma’am.” Steele pushed the perpetrator in front of him.
To the applause of the other passengers, Steele placed the panic-stricken man into a seat.
“Jarl, would you like to do the honors?”
“Fine. As long as he stops crying.”
The man continued to whine in his seat. Jarl wasn’t one for open displays of emotion. He leaned over, a frown covering his broad face.
“You be quiet. NOW,” he growled. The man had bowed his head in defeat. Just another day in paradise.
His mind returning to the present, Steele listened to Mauser finishing his story about his rescue. The story had won over plenty of females to Mauser’s cause and Steele was pretty sure he could recite it in time word for word.
“The ocean roared around us as waves crashed down. The baby screamed bloody murder, but I kept us afloat. Baby in one arm and mother in the other, I kicked and drove all the way to the helo basket. They both survived. I received the Coast Guard Medal, and became the child’s godfather at her christening. Litt
le Lucy calls me Uncle Ben, now. It’s the least I could do for the family.” He finished by breathing on his nails and brushing them off on his shirt.
Her name tag read Crystal. Pinned above her name tag was a flight attendant union pin. “You just take this and call me when we get back. I’d love to grab a drink with you and hear more about your rescues,” she said, a mischievous smile spreading across her red lips.
“You got it, babe,” Mauser said, tucking the number into his jeans as if he were going to lose the small piece of paper.
“I’ve got to hand out this water, but I’ll talk to you later,” she said, moseying down the aisle hips swaying.
“You’re disgusting,” Steele said, shaking his head.
“She could be the one.”
“Yeah, one of the many.”
“Come on man, you know they’re the bane of my existence.”
Choppy air rocked the cabin up and down. “Another five hours to go,” Steele lamented.
“I’d better catch some sleep then.” Mauser eyed his seat from the galley.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take first watch.” Steele settled into his seat wishing it didn’t feel like his back was supported by a piece of cardboard.
An hour later, Steele sat playing a turn-based strategy game on his iPad. He just couldn’t conquer all of North America. Damn green armies. They are like a never-ending horde. He had a weird feeling that someone watched him. Steele perused the little mounds of heads sprinkled throughout coach. Nobody eyed him with malice.
Something in the back of his skull made him uneasy as if someone were sneaking up on him. Out of the far reaches of his peripheral vision he could see a man standing almost behind him.
It startled him at first, and the man reached out to grab him. Steele spun and immediately recognized the graying man as Wheeler.
His presence was still concerning to Steele. Only an issue of serious magnitude would bring the TL to the back of economy.
Wheeler motioned him to the back galley, his face grave. “We need to talk. Just got word from the Operations Center that our marching orders have changed.”
They couldn’t have changed too much. We’ll still be sitting on a plane at thirty-six thousand feet for the next few hours.
“What’s going on?”
Wheeler leaned in close. “It looks like we’re still going to pick up the staffers, but they’re being held hostage by some sort of terrorist group.”
At the mention of the word “terrorist,” Steele looked around at the handful of passengers scattered about economy.
“A terrorist? AQIM? Al-Shabaab? Boko?” He wanted to know what they were up against. Any little bit of intelligence increased their chances of succeeding.
Wheeler frowned slightly. “I don’t know. Or more likely, they didn’t say. But either way, be ready for anything. Operations also relayed a message to those spooks. Then they started requesting med kits, so there must be wounded.”
This could be bad.
Wheeler continued. “There are some doctors in the group that have been designated priority status. The government must want these guys back real bad.” He peered over Steele’s shoulder.
Steele still absorbed the information. “Why are these doctors so important?”
Wheeler shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Beats me. All I know is that they take the highest priority over everything else out there. No one else matters. When we land back at McCone, there’ll be an armed escort for the docs.”
“I got it. Make sure the guys with MD after their names arrive safely,” Steele said with a mock salute.
Wheeler gestured with his thumb over at Mauser. “Will you let sleeping beauty know that Jarl and myself will be running close security for the trip home?”
Steele smiled. “It’s about time he woke up, anyhow.” He chucked his empty Styrofoam coffee cup at Mauser’s head.
Mauser shot out of his seat, hands in a striking stance.
“Who goes th--?” He looked around sheepishly when he realized no one was there. After a few confused seconds, he zeroed in on the culprit, who sat back down, laughing.
“I know where you live, asshole.”
KOSOKO
Kinshasa International Airport, DRC
Twisting the steering wheel, Kosoko swerved around a stranded vehicle, crushing the bodies of the afflicted with his heavy transport vehicle. The bodies thudded off the sturdy steel front as even more shades roamed out of the reach of the truck’s lights.
A dongola miso clambered onto the hood, fingers hooked around the top. He was a poor bastard, clothes ragged and worn; the left side of his face was all exposed bone and tendon, making him a dead bastard. Its milky eyes stared knowingly, but somehow unknowingly, straight at him. Clawing the windshield in a futile attempt to reach Kosoko, Kosoko leaned out the window and fired his .45 caliber revolver into the head of a monster. The body limply rolled to the side of the road after the man’s brain exploded out the back of his head. Sporadic gunfire came from the back of the flatbed truck.
That was close, I’m going to have to go faster. The truck’s speed had dropped too low. He gassed the pedal, edging the speedometer around forty kilometers per hour. Any slower, and sometimes the stronger monsters could cling on.
Kosoko’s lips drew tight across his mouth. The Americans had made the deal. All he had to do was make it to the airport in one piece. They were flying in a plane with the special medicine on board for Ajani. Provided they kept their word. If they back out on the agreement, the hostages have more than the dongola misos to worry about.
As he turned onto Airport Road, dozens of bloodied people clustering the airport gate spun toward the truck. The Kinshasa Airport gate crumpled as Kosoko floored the truck through bodies and gate alike rocketing onto the airfield. It wasn’t made to resist a vehicle; it was merely there to keep people out. Lazy guards normally lounged nearby, but they had either run or died, as the booth sat empty.
Kosoko barreled into the secure part of the airport. Nothing moved here. No people. No planes. No dongola misos, but that would change. Only a single terminal sat unmolested. It was a thick, concrete, faded yellow building. Built by the Belgians in the forties, Kosoko was convinced it hadn’t been upgraded since. Floodlights illuminated the sky above the entrance to the terminal, but no one moved outside.
He checked his side mirror. The plagued shadows poured through the gate behind the transport. He didn’t have much time before the dongola misos caught up with the trucks. Most of them were slow, walking speed tops, but some seemed to be a bit faster, depending on their injuries. It was far more of a curse than a virus. Dead that were not allowed to rest.
Where are those damn Americans? No one awaited his arrival. He saw no plane with U.S. markings. What should I expect, them to roll out the red carpet after I kidnapped their people? I almost wish it was a trap. Fighting would be preferable to being hung out to dry.
He momentarily considered trying to fly one of the abandoned planes to escape. Some lay dark and dormant, forgotten skeletal remains in their hangers. No, I can’t fly these machines. He slammed on the brakes.
They must have backed out. Those bastards should have come. They would lose a great number of their people today. It would become a day of infamy for them. I will be vilified for it, but in reality, it was their failure for not holding up their end of the bargain. One way or another, Americans always pay.
He rested his head on the large black steering wheel. The heavy dud-dud-dud of gunfire banged from the back of his truck into the endless night. The dongola misos will be here soon.
Perhaps the Yankees were late, and he could hold up in the terminal. Kosoko wanted to howl with rage. Too many options and none of them were any good.
“Come Dikembe.”
Kosoko hopped down from the driver’s seat marching to the rear. Shadows trudged toward him in a never ending onslaught. He didn’t have any time.
“You, come here.” An older gentleman with black glasses stared bac
k at him lacking awareness of his fate.
“Get down here, now.” Kosoko grabbed him by his shirt ripping him down to the pavement from the flat bed.
“I am a doctor, please,” the man pleaded. No one stood up for him or cried out in protest. Compliance was easy when dealing with mere sheep.
Drawing his long barreled revolver, he aimed at the doctor’s head. The doctor covered his face with his hands. This man does not understand the necessity of his sacrifice.
“What do I need two doctors for anyway?”
Gun smoke drifted from his barrel and the doctor held his leg. The monsters were drawn to the living. The dongola misos moaned in reply as if Kosoko had rung a dinner bell.
The doctor pushed onto his wounded leg.
“You shot me. You devil.” He grimaced.
“Let’s move,” Kosoko barked at his men and they saddled back up.
“Don’t look so happy, Dikembe. That could have been you. Keep your eyes open for the Americans.” Dikembe visibly gulped peering feverishly around the airfield in apparent usefulness. His men and the hostages alike were thankful he hadn’t left them for dead.
Kosoko glanced in his side mirror as he drove away from the injured doctor. Dragging himself back toward the vehicles, Kosoko was almost impressed by the doctor’s willingness to live on. His struggle, however, was short-lived, as the dongola misos caught him after a few steps. They took him down like a lion would a gazelle with hands that dug into his skin like claws. Tearing into his flesh in a wild manner, they ripped the meat from his bones with greedy hands.
Dikembe grabbed his sleeve frantically. “Colonel, Colonel, over there,” he pointed toward a hangar by the air fuel depot.
“We are in luck,” Kosoko laughed, pressing the gas pedal flat and the truck hesitated waiting to lurch forward for a moment. Knowing that people must have fallen in the back and not caring, he drove the truck right into the hanger and pulled it alongside the aircraft.
Two white men in their fifties stood near the tail of the aircraft wearing smart blazers. One held a nondescript gray case. Not very official looking: there are no biohazard symbols or special markings that I would expect on a case that held such powerful medicine.
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