by Vince Milam
An option, for sure. But I refused heading down a slippery path flooded with uncertain blood. An element of humanity still lit the current road. Dim, perhaps, but there.
The man remained silent, hard and resolute. He showed no reaction to the sprout wings suggestion. A tough pro. A decision point arrived and I made the call.
“We’re burning daylight,” I said. “Put him on board. Let’s move.”
Catch sheathed the blade and snatched the man over his shoulder. Weapons container loaded, the prop-plane pilots waited. Company employees—indicated through their utter disinterest as Catch loaded the Russian into an empty seat. Door shut, engines fired, we taxied toward the runway.
Bo accessed the weapons container, stripped, and donned jungle wear. Fished through the weaponry, made choices, and loaded up. He’d hit the ground ready, a hard warrior armed to the teeth, primed, indomitable. Catch and I would don similar wear and weaponry. And adopt the same attitude. Battle, Delta-style, headed into the abyss.
Chapter 33
The plane held six passenger seats. The other usual seats had been removed for a cargo area. Bo and I sat next to each other, Catch and the Russian ahead. I kept an eye on Catch.
The final leg, and time for a mental ramp-up, a psychological shift. We were entering the battle zone. Grim commitment, the adrenaline pump engaged. A yearning, natural, to ask Bo where he landed after Portland lingered—and was shunted aside. It could wait.
Catch spoke into the Russian’s ear, waited for an answer, and growled responses. Repeated on a ten-minute cycle. After half a dozen attempts, Catch turned in his seat, locked eyes, and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head. No. No escalation with this guy. I became more convinced the Russian didn’t know jack, except we had arrived and were headed for Kiunga. Catch snorted, turned, and focused on the upcoming mission. As always, he stretched his neck and cracked knuckles—a prebattle ritual.
Early afternoon we started our descent. Gear was collected and checked again. Rounds chambered, snicks of firepower yet delivered. We’d exit with fingers on triggers. The runway came into view. Low clouds, steamy, intermittent rain. Puddles littered the runway. The tin shack that passed for a terminal held a few people. An old Datsun pickup was parked nearby. A final turn and final approach. Game time.
Wheels touched and we taxied across gravel to the terminal shack. Half a dozen locals, spectators, stood and watched. They collected daily. Kiunga entertainment—a plane landing. A young commercial pilot in white knee socks and dress uniform occupied the lone outside chair. And sitting on a wooden crate alongside the shack, shaded, sat Chambers. The Brit spook. An unexpected twist. But Chambers wouldn’t open fire on us, held no ill intent I could discern, and his presence indicated a degree of situational calm.
The door dropped. We grabbed gear. Catch bear-hugged the Russian, pulled him down the aisle, and tossed him out the door at a high arc. The Russian landed with thud, grunting. Catch followed.
Three well-armed men in military gear were sufficient to convince the locals a less dangerous locale should be sought. They wandered off, stopped and stared, and continued distancing themselves.
Catch and Bo wrestled the weapons container from the cargo hold—extra armament and backup and coming with us. Then Bo circled the side of the shack, weapon shouldered. The engines of the prop plane didn’t shut down, but one of the pilots exited and walked toward me.
“Can’t linger. Take this.”
He handed me a card with a handwritten number.
“Call. We’ll get you. And, hopefully, her.”
I nodded back. He shot Chambers a hard look—spook to spook and how they knew I’d never understand—and crawled back in the plane. They taxied toward the runway, soon airborne. Chambers maintained a benign smile and sat cool as a cucumber.
“Clear,” Bo announced. No present danger. “Except for the clothes model.”
Chambers straightened a perceived flaw in his trousers.
“MI6,” I said, informing my teammates.
“You chaps do know how to make an entrance,” Chambers said. “Bravo.”
Creased khakis, white pressed shirt, the cuffs folded up the forearms twice. And a pipe. Smoking a pipe, his hair perfect. You had to credit MI6—the man was straight out of central casting.
Chambers turned and addressed the young commercial pilot seated nearby. “I think it best you take a walk. Not far, mind you. But certainly out of earshot.”
The pilot’s mouth, open at our locked-and-loaded and tossed-Russian appearance, snapped shut. A final glance our way and he headed along the airport dirt road. He didn’t look back.
Catch spit and asked, “That ours?” He pointed toward the small pickup.
I shrugged.
“Mine, I’m afraid,” Chambers said. “A bit of an old banger. One must make do, however.”
“What the hell is going on, Chambers?” I asked.
Bo eased from the side of the shack and shifted his aim between the town and surrounding jungle-cleared areas. Catch held his assault rifle across his chest, finger on the trigger.
“I believe that weapon’s safety is off,” Chambers said, admonishing. He pointed his pipe at Catch’s MK18.
Catch extended his trigger finger, an exaggerated move, and said, “This is my safety.” He scanned the area, eyes focused on near and far threats. We stood in the open.
“Stake this building,” I said. The shack offered protection. Not much, but far superior to an exposed position. We moved. Bo and Catch pressed against outside corners and continued scanning. I approached Chambers.
The spy pointed toward the Russian, who had rolled over and faced us, his expression unchanged. Still on the job, watching, listening.
“I believe we would be better served if your gentleman was also of some distance away,” Chambers said. I doubted Chambers understood the nature of our tied-up guest. Then again, we stood on the shifting sands of the clandestine world. You never knew.
Catch, Bo, and I shared glances. Catch spit again, grabbed the Russian by the feet, and dragged him around the shack and into the weeds. Bo covered him. I waited until he returned. Sweat flowed, fatigues stuck to chests and backs. Except for the Brit. Made in the shade.
“Right,” Chambers said. “The entire bloody effort here is buggered up. We’re leaving.”
He met us for a reason. Marilyn Townsend. And as a spook, he’d take his own sweet, nebulous time revealing details.
“British mining interests are leaving?” I asked.
“No. Me and my people. Let’s not pretend you don’t know the game, sport.”
Yeah, I knew the game. Allies and all that, but I didn’t trust him. My trust of anyone or anything here remained at low ebb. With two lone exceptions—my teammates and the assault rifle I held.
“You know why we’re here?”
“Let’s just say information was communicated.” He maintained an air of detachment.
The Company, at Townsend’s direction and through channels, communicated with MI6. Shared intel, misdirection, lies. And asked Chambers for help. There was reciprocity involved, without doubt, but far off into “don’t care” territory.
“And I must say,” he continued. “The cavalry appears a bit sparse. No offense.”
There was no point discussing our operational strength. At the moment, we were open targets, a bad thing.
“Why are we standing here with our thumbs up our butts?” Catch asked, reading my mind. “Where’s the river?”
“A man after my own heart. Blunt talk, straight to the point.” Chambers puffed his pipe, the cold steel smile maintained. Nothing straight to the point about this guy.
“Not digging this vibe,” Bo said, his weapon shouldered, eyes capturing movement, intent. “Too quiet. Too weird. Gotta move, people.”
Movement offered fluidity, safety. Three static men became targets. Each of us felt it, sensed it. The air was muggy, fetid. Low clouds drifted and obscured distant mountains. A group of airborne insects—dragonfly-size a
nd moving in buggy formation—passed nearby. They emitted a locustlike buzz, their destination unknown. A surreal setting. Several sweat drops rolled down my cheeks. Town noises drifted across the half-mile distance.
“I believe I can help with movement, gentlemen,” Chambers said. “Allow me to transport you to the docks. Preparations have been made.”
He stood. The three of us exchanged glances, shrugged. Driving, we were fifteen minutes from the docks. Catch and I loaded the weapons container into the back of the pickup, positioned across the bed, against the tailgate. Protection. Bo and Catch occupied the bed of the truck, sat on the floor, weapons extended. I rode shotgun, the MK18 upright, held with both hands. I could send well-aimed lead out the window in less than a second.
“Let’s start with these preparations,” I said. Marilyn Townsend’s preparations. The old Datsun ground into gear and rumbled forward.
“An associate of yours waits.” He produced a case with horn-rimmed sunglasses. Checked himself in the rearview mirror.
“An associate.” Not a question. An opened door.
“On your side’s payroll, one would suspect. I believe he has arranged river transport.”
“Who?”
“You met him. Sales chap. A Mr. Wilson.”
All right. I could see it. Billy Wilson. The hotel veranda sales guy who handed me his business card. Out of Cairns, Australia. The guy the Company selected to take my place. Recruited, he worked here with Abbie. Billy Wilson would soon meet the Delta HR department.
Chambers honked and waved at the walking pilot as we pulled away. Signaled the all clear. The pilot lifted a chin as response, stopped, and headed back toward the terminal shack. Our Russian would greet him, shouting. The young pilot—after careful considerations—would cut him loose. Fine. We’d crossed the line, entered enemy turf.
“I’ll soon depart courtesy of that young fellow,” Chambers said.
“That’s it? Pack up shop?” He and his fellow MI6 personnel—an unknown number—would vanish without a trace.
“It happens.”
“What about the Russians. And JI?”
No point playing games. We’d be on board a boat and headed upriver soon. Blunt statements and questions the current rules of engagement.
“I would rather imagine most interests will wait for the outcome of your little incursion. Future decisions and actions enacted post-encounter.”
He hesitated, doubts unspoken. Chambers viewed our efforts as suicidal. Written off, the three of us. Abbie killed. His glance my way and next words indicated as much.
“At times, due to shifting sands, it is best to simply hope for the best. Then assess the aftermath and move forward.”
Chapter 34
We entered Kiunga. Busy streets, commerce, foot traffic. A passing low cloud dropped rain, intermittent large droplets. We kept the cab windows open. People stared, others averted eyes. Three armed men, military types, traversed their town.
We entered a danger zone. Close quarters, and the sooner we passed through this the better. Russian operators weren’t known as subtle, and a mid-Kiunga attack was within the realm of possibility.
“Odds of a hot fire situation here?” I asked, scanning every person, vehicle, and building. Bo and Catch would mirror my activities.
“Slim.” He puffed his pipe. “Then again, who knows?”
“That’s helpful.”
“A simple fact.” He downshifted, slowed. Pedestrians crossed streets at random intervals. We maneuvered toward the dock area.
“Hey!” Catch called from the back. “You think you could kick this thing in the ass?”
“He wants you to go faster,” I said. “A sentiment I share.”
Chambers neither answered nor increased speed. I kept firing questions to gather intel and acquire any available leverage.
“So lend a hand, Chambers. Inside information. It could help.”
He remained silent. I pressed for an overview, context.
“The Russians ran this from the get-go?”
“No.” He paused and stared at me. A slight but discernable change in attitude. A positive change. “JI arrived of their own volition. The Russians moved fast, however. Made overtures.”
“New AK-47 overtures?”
“You do possess a keen eye.” He eased the truck past a middle-of-the-road gathering of locals. “In all candor, Mr. Lee, we failed to make such a connection.”
Understandable. Spooks focused on people, movement, communications. When you lived at the potential receiving end of military firepower, like yours truly, you noticed new AKs. But the realization claxon rang loud with Chambers’ statement. He knew my name. The Company spilled beans, or MI6 performed their own sleuthing.
The old truck clanged through mud potholes, gears grinding as we slowed, stopped. A supply truck loaded with equipment crossed, blocking us. It was driven in reverse along the muddy streets of Kiunga. Perhaps the forward gears no longer functioned, but the driver had supplies to deliver.
“All good?” I asked out the window. We were sitting ducks.
“We could paint bull’s-eyes on ourselves, my brother. The only improvement I can think of,” Bo said, his voice tight.
Chambers acknowledged our angst—and perhaps covered his own butt. He turned the wheel and scooted down a back alley. A space between buildings and houses, not ideal, but away from crowds.
I laid a truth card and hoped this spook would reciprocate. Worth a shot, as I’d never see him again. And I wanted information. Or a clandestine semblance of it. Something, anything, that would help us when we headed upriver.
“I was played. By my side,” I said.
“It happens.”
No sympathetic clucks from this high-ranking MI6 spy.
“Instructed to check if the Indonesians were amenable to a partner. So the Company could swim upstream in their organization.”
“Someone preempted your side’s endeavor. And not Ivan.”
That percolated for a moment or three.
“You mean the Russians weren’t the gold partners? Taking a cut of any findings?”
“Originally, to be sure. Along with cultivating their own relationship with JI. They are prone to such arranged marriages.”
The Russians—Hezbollah, Hamas, Assad in Syria. Got it. And here I sat, smack dab in the middle of Spookville again. Angles, nuances, hidden agendas. Meanwhile, hot lead could pour our way from any corner, car, or building.
“So who teamed with them? Preempted the Company’s efforts?”
Chambers smiled, wistful, with a touch of smug satisfaction. Of course. The Brits. They’d cut a deal with JI. Beat the US, running a similar strategy.
It also meant the Russians let JI do it. They knew. And planned swimming upstream in MI6. Counter-infiltration. High stakes gamesmanship.
“So you guys got played by the Russians.” A flat statement, no incriminations, no finger-pointing. A fact. “They planned on working MI6.”
“A strange world.”
Strange didn’t cover it. We rumbled along another street, rickety warehouses visible ahead, the docks nearby.
“Approaching,” I called out the window.
“About damn time,” Catch said.
A shot rang, echoed. Distant, but with the unmistakable crack of a high-powered weapon.
“There!” I yelled at Chambers. Another alley, a mud track.
He jerked the wheel, turned. Bo, Catch, and I bailed. We took positions between two shacks, rifles shouldered, and sought targets. The old Datsun rolled to a stop. The metallic click of Chambers’ Zippo lighter the lone sound as he relit his pipe.
We waited five minutes. Kiunga presented a Wild West atmosphere, and a random shot wasn’t new or unique. Except we were on high alert, aware an ambush, an attack, could happen any second. The adrenaline pump ratcheted up a couple of notches.
“Clear,” Bo said.
“Clear,” I replied.
“I’m gonna feel a helluva lot better w
hen we get on the river,” Catch said. “Put this town behind us.”
No argument from me. We climbed back in the pickup.
“Goose it, Chambers,” I said. “Get our asses out of here.”
“Another few minutes, sport. Unless the three of you insist on blowing something up along the way.”
A dig at American proclivities. I endeavored finishing the conversation.
“How’d you hear about the Russians working you?”
“Sources.”
Yeah, sources. Plenty of those in Kiunga. The hotel owners, waitresses, the proprietor of the lone grocery store. Billy Wilson. Lots of ears, lots of opportunity to slip Benjamins into ambivalent hands. Or it could have been the Company. Alert MI6 so they’d pull out. And then replace them. With Abbie Rice leading the charge. And knowing the Company, attempt an upstream move with JI and a downstream move with the FSB. Man, these people lived a convoluted, messed-up life.
“So you pull out of the deal. Leaving just JI and their Cossack buddies.”
He declined an answer.
“And opened the door for the Company to give it a try.” He wouldn’t verify. But he wouldn’t deny it, either.
Chambers turned a final time, between two warehouses. The cobbled-together docks appeared a hundred yards ahead. The truck’s small cab filled with aromas of creosote, diesel, and sweating men. Laborers called as they moved supplies in and out of warehouses. The Fly River, brown, desultory, flowed past.
“From the Russians’ perspective,” Chambers said, “their next step was a natural. The Indos lost their extra funding. Us. So solidify the relationship. Offer a consolation prize.”
“My head.”
“A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“The Russians offered me. My bounty. In exchange for a Company officer. That they kidnapped and handed to JI. With the goal of us both being killed.”
“Strange world.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
He slowed the vehicle. “The hostage event ended the shadow game. Our cleanest move became clear. We depart in two hours.”
A game. A game he, and the Company, played. Along with the Russians. And who knew where the Chinese came into the whole mess.