by Vince Milam
Hoff smiled, laughed. Unexpected, but he understood the message and was willing to take his chances. A massive Russian naval port would seem far-fetched, far outside his current interests. Vladimir Putin wouldn’t have the same perspective, guaranteed. Russia had invested time and money. There would be a return on their investment. They played for keeps.
I fired the Land Cruiser and paused, twisted my body, and viewed the clearing where the helicopter was landing. Bishop would be transporting supplies, contraband, defectors eager to join Hoff’s army. He worked both sides, double-dipped, and surely had his own private exit strategy. Ballsy, stupid, worth the risk. Take your pick. The life of a hard-bitten mercenary. Jungle debris—decayed matter, leaves, twigs, and bark—filled the area as the chopper settled and the blades wound down.
Nika climbed from the passenger side, dressed in a ball cap, khaki shirt, jeans, and jungle boots. Hell’s bells. Should have seen it coming, screwed up, had to make a last comment. Great, Case. Just freakin’ great. I punched it, and the Land Cruiser leaped forward.
She’d meet with Hoff, he’d tell her about the reporter, and she’d connect the dots. And go ballistic—ordering a quick and violent termination of my assignment. He’d radio the checkpoints that lay ahead. Shitfire and pedal to the metal.
Five checkpoints before exiting the camp areas. The old Land Cruiser’s engine howled, protested. I made it through three, barreled past men with their hands held high, ordering me to stop. Sorry, fellas. Gotta go.
I flew along, bounced off pressed-in trees, lost a side mirror. Exit time. Get to Niew Nickerie, steal a dugout canoe, paddle to Guyana. Cover my tracks, watch my back.
A tight skid around a sharp turn, and the fourth checkpoint appeared, ruining the exit plan. A Type 92 armored personnel carrier squatted in the middle of the path, its 25 mm cannon pointed my way. Double shit.
Adios, Land Cruiser. I slammed the brakes, grabbed my rucksack, flung open the door, and took off into the bush. Almost made it. The cannon roared, the Toyota exploded, and the blast caught me in the back. Lifted from the ground, I tumbled forward, rolled, and got up running. The adrenaline masked any injuries as the dense jungle swallowed my progress.
I angled back toward the checkpoint—a ploy the enemy seldom expected—and hunkered among deep foliage, reconnoitering. My breathing calmed, the .45 pulled. The pistol reach caused a twinge of pain that shouldn’t have been there, and my gun hand returned bloody. Triple shit.
Loud calls and the breaking of jungle limbs surrounded me. Armed movement hunted, scrambled, searched. I reached back with my free hand, assessed, and found a small piece of Toyota Land Cruiser, a shard, embedded in my ass. Great.
My private Suriname offered even thicker vegetation nearby, so I crawled into the dense mass of ferns, brush, vines, small trees. The rucksack contained a first aid kit, Delta-style, and I tore off a piece of bandaging. An ass is a hard thing to wrap, so out with the three-inch piece of metal and in with the wadded-up bandage, shoved deep into the hole. It would have to do.
The first wave of soldiers had passed, and several of them doubled back, rechecking the turf they’d already gone over. One passed within three feet, his boots visible as I lay on my side. He paused. Distant calls continued while he remained, still. The possibility of a rifle barrel aimed my way prompted a minute repositioning of my pistol. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to fire more than one shot. More yells, calls. He moved on. Then quiet.
Nika and Hoff wouldn’t be far behind. A camp vehicle to load them and drive the same distance meant I had a couple of minutes, at best. Critical minutes, because they’d direct the men in a less random search. Right now, the soldiers ran around, helter-skelter.
Rucksack on my back, I made my way toward the river, moved fast, thirty yards at a time. At each stop I dropped to the ground, listened. Visibility was poor in the thick growth, but sound still carried. Another thirty yards, another drop. The key—depart the immediate area, the search zone, and make a silent dash for a watery escape. Dusk descended, a positive factor.
Yelps and calls surrounded me. Then the booming voice of Hoff, commanding. Chaotic running stopped, orders passed, and a methodical search begun. No more yelling, no more crashing of brush. Just the near-silent stalking of men closing on their prey. Commander Joseph Hoff had been trained. Not by Nika—battle operations wouldn’t be her thing—but trained nonetheless. And given the movement of the men around me, trained by an expert. Hoff’s success at armed revolution became clearer. He’d had help, guidance from a player other than Nika.
Two options loomed. Hunker down again inside the thickest jungle available and hope the now-disciplined waves of rebel soldiers passed, or take the elevator. Surrender meant death. Not an option. So I climbed.
A nearby tree pointed straight toward sunlight through the dense canopy, tall, fast-growing. A thick competing vine wrapped around the trunk, also climbing toward light. It provided a solid grip, and I moved upward. Now the danger zone. Movement. Anything moving at eye level to thirty feet up might draw attention through the thick foliage. With rapid, quiet, rhythmic movements, the ground fell away. The danger zone passed, and I continued climbing. At fifty feet, I stopped and wedged inside several branches, hidden from view. My butt wound howled with pain. A quick check ensured the emergency plug of bandage remained.
Several hundred rebel soldiers, reacting to Hoff’s passed-on hand signals, canvassed this stretch of jungle in waves. Along with one Russian. Nika had drawn her pistol and moved with surety—low, steady. A jaguar, hunting. Glued to the trunk among branches, I watched her work and aimed the .45. If she sighted me, she’d kill me. Unless I killed her first.
Squads of soldiers cut focused swaths through the surrounding area, then moved farther away. Their presence receded, and I lost sight of Nika. Deep dusk brought birds flying to roost—parrots, toucans, kingbirds. The air cooled, and the jungle breathed night-blooming flowers as it morphed into nocturnal life. I waited as time and light clocked by.
Near full darkness, the turbine whine of Bishop’s helicopter carried through the jungle. Nika had called it quits. Hoff’s men would soon follow suit, drift back to their camps, start fires, cook supper. I adjusted position, accommodated the wound, still waited.
Thirty minutes passed. I climbed down, silent, and made my way to the river. Away from its mouth, it remained a mile wide, muddy, roiling. Google Earth had shown no roads on the Guyana side until close across from Niew Nickerie, several miles downstream. Cutting through jungle at the riverbank’s edge, I walked north. Men’s laughter drifted from one of the soldier camps, hundreds of yards inland. The quarter moon provided sufficient light to make out a dugout canoe, tied at the river’s edge.
I slipped into the dark waters of the Courantyne River, paddled from a kneeling position, alert for deadly obstacles. The powerful current fought me, pushed, ocean-bound. Rain-forest debris, including massive fallen trees, washed toward the nearby Atlantic. I paddled hard across the current, intent on making the Guyana side. A glow, city lights, more than a mile downriver on the Suriname side announced Niew Nickerie. I flinched when a river dolphin surfaced and blew an exhale. I bit the paddle deeper, pulled, breathing hard.
The canoe met resistance, and I edged through aquatic vegetation announcing the west bank. A silent thanks for the dugout owner, the craft now secured by the thin bowline to a tree. I slid through the Guyana jungle. A gravel road appeared after several hundred yards. A quarter mile later, the faint electric glow of a small village shone through the night.
A few dogs barked as I entered the outskirts. A cow lowed alongside the road, tied with a long rope to a sign, which read Crabwood Creek. Guyana.
Chapter 21
Relief. Relief, lowered adrenaline, and full recognition of an aching ass wound. Out of immediate danger. Out of Suriname. They ought to make a movie.
Crabwood Creek, Guyana. An official greeting cow tied to the town’s sign. Welcome, Case Lee, Esq. A well-built house, one of
the first in town, looked to be my best bet. I approached with caution, and several people on the front porch stopped talking.
“Hi.” There wasn’t much more I could add, other than I was damn glad to see them.
“Hello,” the matron of the group responded.
“I’m looking for a place to stay the night. I’ll pay. One hundred US dollars.”
The gathering, apparently a family, looked at each other and exchanged expressions of “Why not?” The matron spoke.
“That should be fine.” She turned to a young man—her son, it turned out—and ordered him to prepare his room for the stranger. It helped that I stood at the dark edge of the light cast by their porch. I would have looked a mess in the full light.
“And I need a ride to Georgetown in the morning. I’ll pay another one hundred US dollars for that.”
“That should be fine as well.” Whether the old British Land Rover parked nearby provided transportation or another village vehicle mattered little. The matron would arrange things and take her cut. Good for her.
I’d taken off the reporter lanyard and used another false name during introductions, in case any Surinamese crossed the river looking for a reporter. A simple lost tourist, and no further elaboration provided or asked for. Just another crazy American.
I was shown to the son’s room, and the shower was pointed out down the hall. The bloody gob of bandage protruding from the seat of my pants was pointed out as well.
“Fell. Cut myself. It’s nothing.”
The matron rolled her eyes, turned, and headed for the combination large kitchen and dining room. The first order of business—sew up the wound and get clean. Dinner would be served in an hour, and it was made clear my presence was expected.
The rucksack joined me in the bathroom. A large mirror hung above the sink. Standing on a short stool of the type kids used to brush their teeth, a decent view of the issue reflected back. Twisting to look over my shoulder in the mirror, orienting to the reverse view, I maneuvered my upper body sufficient for use of both hands. The medical kit held sutures, forceps, tweezers. The operating room was open.
Standing naked on a child’s stool in the boonies of Guyana, I smelled the barn. I’d use the satellite cell phone and reserve a seat on the first flight north tomorrow. Norfolk by dark. It took more tugging than I’d hoped to pull the cloth plug from the wound. Fresh blood oozed down the back of my leg. A small vial of hydrogen peroxide provided antiseptic, and a clean bandage pressed hard stanched the bleeding.
Georgetown, one hundred miles away. I held high hopes the road would become asphalt close to Crabwood Creek. The less jostling of my rear end, the better. I grabbed the suture needle with forceps and braced. Seven stitches would suffice, spaced wide. Using the mirror helped—the physical concentration required to sew the wound shut in a reflection took my mind off the pain. The first one always hurt the most. Subsequent stitches had a known level of ouch factor to expect, and that helped.
Mom and CC. And Tinker Juarez. I wondered how they were doing. I’d been gone three days. Tomorrow, the fourth. A short, high-octane trip.
The first stitch was key. Drive the suture deep, all the way through, before coming up through the other side of the skin tear. That was important. A person’s butt, unless you intended to spend the day on a couch, was an active element during movement. The stitches needed to hold. The first one rang the pain bell, loud. Son of a bitch. Blood oozed, dripped. I tied the stitch off and snipped the nylon thread.
Tomato plants. Bo would have watered them and looked after the Ace of Spades. Fall season on the Ditch. Snowbirds cruised south, headed for Florida, their large expensive cruisers loaded with winter supplies.
Now two more centered between the first stitch and the edges of the skin tear. The suture needle drove deep, a muted groan as metal pierced flesh. Sweat poured down my face.
Russians. A brassy move on their part. And a massive amount of investment money. Small wonder Mr. Trading Company had been willing to kill to ensure the plan stayed under wraps. He stood to become a very, very wealthy man if Joseph Hoff’s troops took over the country. I wondered how long before the Russians started construction of their naval base. Not long. President Hoff would receive a call from old Vladimir shortly after trying out the sheets at the presidential palace.
Simple surgeon knots tied the stitches shut. Nothing fancy, and they’d hold. I’d been through this more than once before. The whole wound screamed, on fire, as the curved suture needle drove down for the third time.
Blowback. The lion’s share of gigs ended clean. Information gathered, delivered, and I’d fade back into the shadows. This had been one of the rare ones. The hornet’s nest kicked, my name attached. There was likelihood of an aftermath. Blowback of the Russian variety. Russians don’t forget. Or forgive. The Sicilians might take top spot in the revenge category, but Russians were a strong second.
Now two more stitches spaced between the center one and the last two. I squirted more hydrogen peroxide, and it bubbled, drooled down my leg, mingled with the blood.
Nika. If the Russians decided to exact revenge, she’d spearhead the effort. Her mission had been exposed and would soon be delivered for consumption by my client. Being away from the Ditch, away from the Ace of Spades and home turf, exposed me to Russian tenacity, vengeance. Her catching a short flight to Georgetown—where she’d figure I’d head—wouldn’t be a stretch for such a mind-set.
A gentle knock on the bathroom door inquired if I was all right. Too much time had passed, and the shower hadn’t started.
“Fine,” I replied, an attempt at casual, teeth clenched. “Fine. Just about to jump in the shower. Thanks.”
I fought the urge to vomit and finished off the fifth stitch, hands quivering with the last square knot. Keep it up, Delta. Stay tough. Two more near either edge of the skin tear. My side began cramping, protesting the twisted position. Blood oozed at the nonstitched edges. Dr. Lee, on the home stretch.
I’d file my report ASAP. Global Resolutions, pleased with my findings, would drop it in the geopolitical hopper for either a prepaid client or for high-bidder dissemination. I’d stop by the Clubhouse after I landed. Chat with Jules. Exchange information. And watch my back. The Russians could be rash and enact swift retribution. Still, home turf. My terms.
One more, Mr. Man of Intrigue. Get it done. The wet squeak as needle pierced flesh, down one side of the tear, up through the skin on the other. Flop sweat pooled on the stool and the floor. I wondered if these kind folks had anything resembling Grey Goose. Or anything resembling liquor. Beggars—or naked, sweating fools perched on a stool in nowhere, Guyana—couldn’t be choosers.
Tie it off. Whew. Whew and son of a bitch and shit. Shit, enough of that. Final inspection of my handiwork—not bad, with the guarantee of a Frankenstein scar. Onto the tile floor before I did a header in that direction. Completion brought a flood of tremors, the job done. I should hang out a shingle. Dr. Lee, ass-repair specialist. Son of a bitch.
The tile floor, drain in the center, helped the cleanup process. The shower, warm and gentle, was fine. A clean towel and then some antibiotic cream, gauze, and tape applied. Clean clothes from the rucksack. Good to go.
Most of the family remained on the porch while the matron supervised two teenagers in the kitchen. I thanked her for the shower. She introduced herself as Molly and announced supper would soon be served. I wandered onto the front porch and joined the others. Not a peep regarding my arrival, not a single question about how I had gotten lost. They required no elaboration. Just another American, peculiar, reasons and motivations unfathomable.
The oldest gentleman, perhaps the grandfather of the bunch, gestured toward a wooden chair and offered me a smoke. When I declined after a gentle landing, he pulled a bottle of local rum from under his chair and offered it. I grabbed someone’s empty glass from the porch railing.
“No, no,” he said. “A clean glass, my friend. Wait. Wait.”
“Not necess
ary, sir. Not at all. Pour away. I insist.”
Crazy Americans. Harmless, but crazy. He poured two fingers of the amber liquid, rested the neck of the bottle on my glass, and lifted his eyebrows.
“A bit more. Please.”
Another finger’s worth flowed, and I nodded, “Enough.” Ambrosia and nectar of the gods—a fine distilled product from Guyana’s sugarcane fields. I’d taken three ibuprofen, and the rum added to the drug’s efficacy. Relaxation took a foothold, although the .45 stayed hidden under the tail of my shirt. You never could tell with the likes of Nika. I called Air Guyana and booked my flight. Ten thirty in the morning. The Ace of Spades called, waited.
Supper was excellent, the chatter filled with love and good-natured kidding. Fine and good folks. I was lucky to have stumbled across them. Assurances were made that the midmorning flight time wouldn’t be an issue. After one more porch trip for an after-dinner rum, I hit the bunk bed and slept fitfully, a chair propped under the door handle and the .45 at my side. Dreams of jungle, red and vivid, while I huddled, hid from massive crunching footsteps, the enemy unseen.
Chapter 22
A CIA greeting committee of one met me in DC. Not a complete surprise, and the midnight hour added to the clandestine theme. Bone-tired, big-time ass ache, lousy flight—Guyana to Trinidad to Jamaica to New York City to DC—put a heavy thumb on the so what side of the scale.
The ancient Land Rover had covered the one hundred miles to Georgetown in three hours. We’d left well before dawn, and Molly had provided a small, clean tin bucket with cold rice and beans for the trip. My driver had ended up being the young man whose room I’d occupied. We’d talked of weather, food, sports, and girls. A nice kid.
The Georgetown airport immigration agent pointed to the lack of an entry visa stamp for Guyana. Under the guise of trying to find it, I retrieved the passport and inserted a Benjamin. Both edges peeked as it slid back across his desk, and it was discreetly pocketed. An entry and exit visa were thwacked on an empty space in the passport. The .45 pistol was lowered into a bathroom garbage can, the fingerprints wiped clean.